A Very Not Happy Place
by Anguis Intrepidus
Summary: After a fight at Lestrange Manor, Harry, Hermione, Neville, and Cormac are thrust into 1946, when Tom Riddle is working to establish himself as Lord Voldemort. Much to their annoyance, he takes an interest in. . .well, them, specifically Hermione. Caught between a rock and a psychopath, Hermione must navigate her way around Riddle and return her troupe to their original time.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

"I can't see anything!"

"That's because it's dark, you blithering idiot!"

"Both of you shush, or so help me, I will hex you stupid."

"He started it," muttered Ron. "Been talking since the Ministry Foyer."

"Shut up, will you?" hissed someone else ahead of them. "Ron, you'll be marrying her soon, so you'd best just do as she says."

They all fell silent, making their way slowly and cautiously along the corridor. The woman in the group suddenly stopped.

"Harry, do you hear that?"

"You too?" he whispered.

"Hear what?" asked Ron.

"Some sort of humming," Harry answered. "Any ideas, Hermione?"

"None that make any logical sense," she replied shortly.

"We're dealing with Dark Wizards, Hermione; logic doesn't necessarily apply," said the first man.

"Do you have any bright ideas, Cormac?" she hissed, "because if not you'd really better shut up!"

Hermione saw Harry's head of messy hair silhouetted against the artificial light of a room as he softly opened the door ahead of them. His head disappeared and she heard a soft, "Hominum revelio." After a moment he whispered, "All clear. Come on."

The others followed him through the door silently, careful not to let the door slam, checking for any jinxes that alert the master of the house to their presence. The last young man to come through the door closed it softly.

"Neville," breathed Hermione, "did you see anyone behind us?"

"Not a soul," he whispered back.

The five of them moved on to the door at the end of the great room, and after Harry checked that hallway, they proceeded. This hallway was just as dark as the last one, and their progress was immediately slowed drastically.

"Why can't we use a Lumos?" whispered Cormac.

"Cormac, I swear to God – "

"Sh!" hissed Hermione. "Thomeone's coming!" She spoke this way, not because she suffered a lisp, but because a whispered 's' is much more likely to be heard.

Everyone muttered quick Disillusionment Charms, and all went still. A door at the very end of the hall was opened, and four men quickly came through it. By the light of their wands, none of them seemed very happy. Hermione recognized them as Burl Avery, Donovan Nott, Thorfinn Rowle, and Rabastan Lestrange. All were dangerous men, and all were very, very upset.

"_They_ will fix the situation," Lestrange was growling. "I will see to that myself."

"Yeah, if they don't stop you," retorted Nott. "They already stopped the Dark Lord, and in any case, according to Fletcher, they're looking for us just as much as we're looking for them."

Lestrange eyed him coolly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"The Ministry's allowed Potter, Weasley, and Granger to help the Aurors track us all down," said Nott. "And we're as high on the list as it's possible to get. Haven't you been reading the Prophet? They're scouring the country for us!"

"Could be here any time!" barked Rowle.

"If they're not coming up the drive already," said Avery quietly.

"They wouldn't dare," Nott snorted. "They wouldn't come _here_. Not those puny, meddling kids. They'll want it on their turf. Try to smoke us out, maybe. Hide behind their old hag's skirts and wait for us to come. They wouldn't dare come here."

"Oh is that so?" sneered Lestrange. "I suppose Potter _accidentally_ disarmed the Dark Lord, I suppose Granger and Weasley _accidentally_ helped him destroy the Dark Lord's Horcruxes, and, hey, why would any one of them have meant to damage our cause? We have, after all, been so damn _hospitable_." The other men just stared at him uncertainly. "You can bet your arse they're coming, Nott. They're likely already inside the house, waiting for us around a corner. They did manage to break into Gringotts; they'd manage the manor, just you wait and see. Be ready for a fight."

"Or you could just come quietly," came Harry's voice, "and your sentences would likely be cut in half by a – well, I wouldn't say _sympathetic_, but I'm sure the Wizengamot would take note."

Lestrange didn't wait. He fired off a curse in the general direction of Harry's voice. Hermione sent up a shield and the curse fizzled out. Lestrange's comrades began firing off spells as well, and there was quickly no longer a point to the Disillusionment Charm. Gradually the group let them fall, but it did nothing to alleviate the number of flying curses. Cormac let off an Expulso, which caused the wall to explode behind the Death Eaters. The force of the spell caused everyone to fall to their feet. Hermione could see that Nott and Avery were both on the floor. Nott's head was bashed in quite badly, so there was no chance he wasn't dead. An examination of Avery would be conducive later, but certainly not now, as there just wasn't the time.

Lestrange was busy dueling Harry, Neville, and Hermione, and Rowle was trying desperately to back him up. It was a losing battle, though, Hermione could see it in Lestrange's eyes. He set off one last spell, one Hermione didn't recognize, and the floor gave way beneath their feet. And then she was falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

It felt as though they'd never stop, as though they'd never reach the bottom. Where were they? What was beneath them? Were they really falling, or was it a simulation? Was Lestrange still alive? What about Ron? Dear God, Ron! Hermione looked around frantically, but there was no sign of him. There was no sign of anyone but her. What had Lestrange done?

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Would this ever end? How long had she been stuck in this limbo? It felt like hours. Were the others experiencing the same sensation, or was her experience particular to her? She felt sick from the falling, but couldn't see anyway out of it. "Arresto Momentum!" she shouted. Nothing happened. Her falling didn't stop, it didn't even slow by a fraction. She kept plummeting towards the unknown, the nothingness. Then suddenly

WHAM!

CRACK!

CRUNCH!

THUD!

Hermione hit something hard with tremendous force, bounced off it, fell through what felt like a roof, crashed through a floor, and then hit another floor with such momentum it knocked the air out of her chest. Before she could register her surroundings, her injuries, or even if she was still alive, Hermione felt one body slam down on top of her, then a second, and then a third. There was no point in moving just yet, as she still couldn't breathe, but somebody let out a wounded groan.

There was a long silence, and then Hermione opened her eyes. Cormac was spread-eagled on top of her.

"Cormac?" she whispered.

He turned his head. "Hey, Granger."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"No broken bones, or missing limbs?"

"No."

"Good. Now get off me, or I'm going to be very upset."

He moaned painfully, but dragged himself off her and rolled onto the hard floor. Hermione stared up at what appeared to be the ceiling of a storeroom. At first she wondered what use Lestrange could possibly have for a potions cabinet, but then she realized that the items on the shelves weren't potions ingredients, and if the markings on each item were any indication, they were all packaged belongings of Borgin and Burke's.

"Harry, are you there?"

"Yeah," he moaned.

"Harry, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore."

He grunted, oomph'd, rolled over, considered what Hermione had said, and then swore.

"This isn't good," said Cormac, catching on.

"Is that what your intelligence is telling you?" snapped Harry. "How did we get to Borgin and Burke's, Hermione?"

"Well, gee," she said dryly, "why don't we ask Lestrange?"

"Point taken," he said, trying to sit up. "Careful getting up; there's no telling what we have or haven't broken." He reached over and put a hand on Neville's shoulder. "You okay, Neville?"

There was another moan, and then Neville stirred. "Yeah," he rasped. "I'm okay. Just a little winded, is all."

"Where's Ron?" Hermione said, still not moving from her position.

"No idea," said Harry, looking about in alarm. "He's not in here."

Hermione closed her eyes. 'Please let Ron be okay. Please let Ron be okay.' She breathed deep, and then opened her eyes again. "We have to find Mr. Borgin and ask him about the passage. Then we should contact Kingsley and tell him what we've found. We'll find Lestrange, and if he's hurt Ron, that bastard will be in a very unhappy place for a very long time."

"Sounds like a good plan, Hermione," said Harry. "Except, how do we explain to Mr. Borgin what we're doing in his storeroom?"

"You could explain it to me," said a cool voice, "and I could explain it to him."

Hermione shot up, much too quickly, and looked around at the voice. When her head had stopped spinning, she looked to Harry. He looked a mix of terrified and pissed off, and Hermione could only guess that the devastatingly attractive young man who had found them was a Death Eater, or was very keen on being one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"Who are you?" the young man asked them.

"Could ask you the same," Harry retorted.

The young man frowned. "Indeed, you could. However," he casually dropped his hands into his trouser pockets, "given the fact that you have inexplicably fallen into my employer's storeroom, and the fact that you appear to be in a rather precarious situation, it would behoove you to realize that you are in no position to be making demands on my identity."

Hermione was finding this difficult to understand. Obviously Harry wasn't pleased to see this person, which meant that he knew who it was, but she was at a loss. What on earth could have him on edge this badly? He'd only ever been this tense around the Horcruxes, and that, she surmised, was because they'd been carrying around a piece of Voldemort's sou–

She stopped mid-thought, realizing, and part of her stomach churned. "I'm Hermione – " Harry squeezed her arm, and she paused, looking up at him.

"Hermione – " he said warningly.

She put her hand over his. "Trust me on this?" she implored.

Harry looked like he wanted to do a lot of things that didn't involve trusting Hermione's safety to a young Lord Voldemort – if he called himself that now – but he nodded once. "If you say so."

Hermione looked back at Voldemort, praying that the little Occlumency she knew was working at full capacity. "I'm Hermione Granger, this," she gestured to Harry, "is Pip Wilde , this," Neville, "is Chandler Bing, and that," Cormac, "is Palmer McLaggen."

Voldemort – Tom Riddle – whatever he called himself, he looked pleased. "There, now. Was that so hard?"

Hermione could hear Harry's teeth grinding. 'You really have no idea, do you?' She patted his hand. "You'll have to forgive Pip; he's quite protective."

Voldemort's eyes glinted. "Yes, I daresay he is." There was a silence, and then he shrugged. "Fair is fair, I suppose." He held out his hand to Hermione. "I'm Tom."

Hermione hesitated, and Harry's hand tightened around her arm. Against her better judgement, Hermione raised her hand and clasped Voldemort's. "Does Tom have a surname?"

His smile was completely disarming. "Riddle."

"Well, I must apologize for our causing such trouble while you were at work, Mr. Riddle," said Hermione. "We didn't anticipate – well, _this_." Neville and Cormac seemed to have been struck dumb. Neville, she didn't mind so much, but Hermione couldn't help but thank whatever deity was listening that Cormac was witless at this moment.

Voldemort effortlessly pulled Hermione to her feet. "What did you anticipate?"

"A harder landing, and not to survive," she said.

"Playing with magic, then?" he asked.

"Not us, no," said Hermione.

"We were attacked," Harry added, his voice still wooden.

"Attacked?" echoed Voldemort. "Oh dear, how dreadful. By whom?"

Hermione cut in before Harry could answer. "We're not sure. A friend of ours was in terrible danger, and we followed his trail, but – well, _someone_ had other ideas, and here we are."

If she hadn't already known he was a raging, murderous psychopath, Hermione might be fooled by the look of concern. "How very intriguing. And you've no idea who took him? Your friend?"

"None at all."

"Terrible business," Voldemort said. "Just terrible."

"Agreed," Harry muttered.

"We are terribly sorry about your storeroom," Hermione said.

"I'm sure my employer will understand," Voldemort placated. "These things happen, and we don't always have as much control of a situation as we would like, wizards though we are."

"You're awfully understanding," said Harry stiffly.

Voldemort appeared to be slightly confused. "How d'you mean?"

"Well, if a group of strangers had suddenly fallen out of nowhere into _my_ boss's storeroom, I'd be pretty pissed off about it," he said. "Whatever damage we did in here could cost you a good percent of your wage."

Voldemort sighed. "I suppose you have a point. However, nothing appears to have really been damaged at all, more luckily for you, I think than our customers. There are shields and wards put in place for – unforeseeable events. Case in point, your sudden fall." He stepped into the storeroom and looked around. "No, I think the only things to _really_ suffer damage would be the roof, the floor, and perhaps the four of you; the former are easily mended, as you'll know." He smiled at Hermione again. "Nothing to worry about on that score, I'm sure."

"Thank you for that consideration," said Hermione, seeing a way out of the storeroom, and grasping readily at it. "We'll just be on our way, then. So sorry to have caused you trouble. Uh – " Hermione turned and glanced at the broken floorboards, waving her wand in a complex series of movements, and watching as the debris all flew back into its original place. "I suppose that's the least we can do, considering we're responsible."

Voldemort seemed amused. "You're very kind. Do you perhaps require assistance to St. Mungo's for your injuries?"

"No!" said Harry quickly.

Hermione shot him a look. "No, _thank you_," she said pointedly, and then turned back to Voldemort. "I think we can manage. We've likely got you into enough trouble as it is. When your employer finds out what happened in here –"

"Nonsense," Voldemort interrupted smoothly. "He will be pleased none of his products were damaged. Are you sure you wouldn't like any help to a hospital?"

"Indeed," said Harry.

Hermione took a breath. "Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Mr. Riddle. Really, though, we'll be fine."

Voldemort bowed. "If you insist."

"We really do."

"Pip!"

Harry looked chastised, and then stuck out his hand. "Thanks for your consideration."

Voldemort shook it gingerly, as though worried that with too much movement Harry might explode into a flaming banshee. "Any time, I assure you."

There was some scraping and awkward shifting, but soon enough Neville and Cormac had made their way past Voldemort and were following Harry and Hermione out onto Knockturn Alley. They had scarcely gone fifty yards when a shoppe's bell tinkled behind them. Hermione turned under the premise of looking up and down the street for a way out. A young man, platinum blonde and looking uncannily like Draco Malfoy was standing next to the door of Borgin and Burke's smoking a cigarette, looking about rather lazily.

"Harry," said Hermione softly. "Harry, I think Voldemort's sent someone to keep an eye on us."


	3. Chapter 3

**_Well aren't you all extremely lucky. Two chapters in one day. Not that anyone pays attention to these little blurbs. I suppose this is where social convention dictates I apologize for the fortnight between updates, but an apology wouldn't exactly be fair, as I'm not really all that sorry. See, I'm an actual writer outside of the HP fandom, and I do have other deadlines I'm trying to make. Also, there is Real Life to contend with, so Happy Place wasn't at the top of my list of priorities. However, I shall try my best to make up for all of this by giving you at_ _least__two chapters_ _per update. I hope we can all consider that a fair deal. _  
**

**_It should also be noted that I do NOT write fluffy, conscientious, lovey-dovey Toms. Tom is a sociopath, and having grown up in the presence of one, I am painfully familiar with their behavioral patterns. My Toms (as I'm hoping to write up more than one Tomione) will be a reflection of that sociopathic character. I hope everyone is okay with that. If not, tough deal._ NOTE:_ There will be sarcasm and little to no political correctness on practically every page loaded for this story. If you find my lack of political correctness or my excessive sarcasm offensive, you are welcome to message me privately and we can discuss it. _**

**_It should also be noted that I am going to try to keep my Hermione as close as possible to JKR's Hermione. I like her version of Hermione the best, and, let's face it, most fanfiction Hermione's, for whatever reason, turn out to be raging sluts. I find this annoying, but those stories belong to those authors, and there's not much I can do about that except to not follow the pattern.  
_**

**_If you spot an error, point it out and I'll do what I can to fix it. Seriously, I may be a raging bitch, but I don't bite. . .hard. . .often. I don't bite hard often. If you flame just to flame, I'll probably ignore you, as flames don't typically have anything constructive to say. _****_That being said, I hope you all find the story enjoyable, and I look forward (albeit apprehensively) to your feedback. And feedback really is essential. Writers like constructive and helpful reviews.  
_**

**Chapter 3**

The quartet made their way down to The Leaky Cauldron, keeping their heads down as best they could, trying to avoid people and the questions that invariably came with them. Hermione continued to keep a hidden eye on what was behind them, and the fact that Abraxas was still following them wasn't setting well in her stomach. She nudged the boys along every time they paused and tried to speak. Being overheard in a crowded Diagon Alley was the _last_ thing they needed.

Once inside the inn, everyone sank down at a table, ordered a round of the strongest drink available, and sat quietly until it came. No one moved, no one blinked, Hermione wasn't sure she wanted to breathe. When Abraxas came through the door and sat down in a corner, she called for an entire bottle of the liquor, gulping down three shots when it came.

"Dunno what you're so worried about," said Harry gloomily. "You're not the one who's supposed to have _defeated him once already_."

"Will you shush!" Hermione hissed, throwing up a Muffliato. Abraxas twitched in his corner, rubbing his ear. "We can't risk anyone overhearing us. If we have to talk about this in public, at least put up a charm so no one is the wiser."

"Sorry," he said. "But on the subject of no one being the wiser, why would you give him your name?! What happens when we get back to the future and he sees you in the Ministry? He's going to know!"

"What's he going to do about it?" she quipped. "It's not like it's _me_ he's going to try to kill as a baby."

"Still, he'll _know_. He can't _know_. What if he does something that stops you being born?"

Hermione paused before taking another drink. "Harry Potter, you'd better hope he doesn't or you'll die your first year."

"Bet the Dursleys would be pleased," he muttered into his drink.

"Oh, stop being all misunderstood," said Hermione impatiently. "They're not the only ones who'd be pleased to see you go, remember."

"So what do we do?" asked Neville after a while. "I mean, we can't just. . .I dunno, _stay_ here. We've got to get back. What about Gran, and Teddy?"

"The convenient thing about being in the past," said Hermione, "is that no one from the future merits our concern any longer. There's no rush to get back to Teddy, because technically neither Tonks nor Lupin have even been conceived yet, and your grandmother is probably still _our_ age and won't need looking after. . .not by us, anyway."

"The only thing to really worry about," said Cormac grandly, "is what will happen in the future if we change anything in the past." Harry, Hermione, and Neville all stared at him. "Granger's not the only smart one here, you know," he groused angrily, going back to his alcohol.

"In any case," Hermione continued, "the important thing, right now, is to decide where we're going to stay while we figure all this out. We can't stay here; we haven't any money for that. We'll be lucky if we can afford the booze."

"We could camp?" suggested Harry.

Hermione looked at him sideways. "You'd really be willing to do that again?"

"Well," he said, "not entirely, but it beats the hell out of sleeping on the streets in Diagon Alley, and who exactly would be willing to take us in, particularly with the war just being over, if it isn't still going. People are still on rations, even in the wizarding world."

Hermione mulled this over. "You have a point."

"So what do we do?" said Neville. "Harry's idea has merit, doesn't it?"

"It's about the only thing that does," said Hermione, rubbing her eyes. "Nothing else is either feasible or sensible, considering we're in –" she paused and picked up a paper from a nearby table, " – 1946. 1946. We're massively out of our depth." She threw the paper down on the table. "Grindelwald was only defeated a year ago, the War really _has_ just ended, and we're stuck in 1946, on rations, with no way of knowing how to get home."

"Well, hang on," said Harry. "What about Dumbledore?"

"What about him?"

"Dumbledore could help us!"

"I doubt if Dumbledore would believe us, Harry. At any rate, if we, in this timeline, come to Dumbledore, he'd know us in the future."

"True," conceded Harry, "but considering he didn't tell us all those things about his – er, past, is it likely he'd mention to us in – er, _our_ time that he'd met us? Think about it."

The idea did have merit. "Alright, Harry, but what about Voldemort? He's got someone tailing us, and if you think there's a remote possibility that Draco's doppelganger won't go back to him with the information he picked up, you've gone soft in the head."

Harry surreptitiously looked over his shoulder at the blonde man in the corner. "I think Neville and I can take care of that, Hermione."

"No fighting!" she hissed. "Are you trying to get is into trouble, what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking, we can deal with him. A memory charm, you're good at those."

"Voldemort's a Legilimens, Harry," Hermione said calmly, "the most powerful one in the world – well, aside from Dumbledore, I suppose. He could break through the spell in no time, he wouldn't break a sweat."

Harry shrugged. "We don't need it to keep him out; just to – delay him for a bit."

Hermione looked over at the blonde bombshell, and sighed. "Alright, we'll do it." Harry curled his fists in victory. "But you are not allowed to damage him too badly."

There was a moment of silence, and then Neville said, "So. . .are we going to Dumbledore, or aren't we?"

Hermione sighed, and looked to Harry. "We are," he said proudly. "Dumbledore can help. He'll understand."

"If he makes us stay at the school so he can keep an eye on us, I'm out," said Cormac decidedly.

"And where exactly will you go, Cormac?" said Hermione complacently.

He stammered and spluttered for a bit, and then slammed his empty glass down on the table. "Fine, I'll stay. But you can't let him make us stay in the castle."

"What's wrong with the castle?" challenged Harry.

"It's a _school_, for starters," said Cormac acidly. "And we'll not mention they've got professors, and their caretaker roaming around, and really, have you ever known Peeves to keep a secret that didn't suit him?"

Hermione made a face. "Those are actually valid points he's making, Harry."

Harry crossed his arms, and slouched in his chair, his thinking position. "Alright then, we'll camp outside Hogsmeade, and wait for Dumbledore to contact us. Satisfied?"

Cormac leaned back in his chair. "Much, thanks."

Hermione buried her face in her hands. "Dammit."

"What's wrong?" the boys said.

"We're back in 1946, that's what's wrong!" she snapped. "Do any of _you_ know anything about the social customs of 1946?" They were silent. "I thought not," she said. "Here we are, in a time we're totally unfamiliar with, being trailed by Voledmort's lackeys, and we have no money. We are, in layman's terms, attached to another object by an inclined plane wrapped helically around an axis." The boys just stared at her. "Screwed, boys! We're screwed!"

"Oh," they all muttered.

"What can we do?" said Harry. "We can't just wish this away, can we? We'll have to speak to Dumbledore."

"You _still_ trust that old man?" said Cormac incredulously. "After having read Skeeter's biog –"

Before Harry could move, Hermione snatched Cormac's shirt-collar and pulled him half-way across the table. "You listen, and you listen closely, Cormac McLaggen. Rita Skeeter is a foul, loathsome, mean-spirited old crone, ready to tell lies about anyone in order to sell books. Maybe some of what she wrote is true, but you can bet your sorry arse that most of it isn't. If you _ever_ speak ill of Dumbledore again based on what _Rita Skeeter_ says, you will be on the receiving end of my wand, is that clear?"

Cormac looked duly frightened, which was more or less the point. He nodded, gulping. Hermione let go, and he sprang back into his chair. Neville looked distinctly pleased, sipping his drink, and Harry simply smiled at his best friend. "Now, then," said Hermione, glancing again at Malfoy's double, "I think it's time we went and lured our friend into a back alley somewhere, don't you?" This agreed, the four stood up, Hermion cancelled the Muffliato, and led the way out onto the London streets.

Neville, having hardly visited Muggle London in their future, gawked at its 1946 version. Hermione took his arm and led him down the street and around the corner. "Keep calm, Neville," she said gently. "You'll be helping Harry, in any case."

"Why isn't Cormac helping him?" he whispered back.

"Cormac wouldn't have _time_ to cast the spell. He may be big, but he's an easy beat, and you know it."

"What about me?" Neville said. "I could barely make it through Potions without having a melt-down. What makes you think I'll be any use to Harry?"

"Because, Neville, you killed Nagini," said Hermione firmly. "That's all the evidence I need."

The quartet followed several more streets, and, upon finding what seemed to be the right place, traipsed down an abandoned alleyway. Thinking quickly, Hermione dropped Cormac with a Stunner and levitated him into an out of the way niche, ensconcing herself next to him. Harry and Neville slipped into the shadows as well, and they waited patiently for the Malfoy ancestor to arrive. The wait wasn't long; less than five minutes had ticked on the clock before the young wizard came along, his gait jaunty and his gaze wary. It was the perfect trap, mostly because he was alone. Two stunners came flying, one from behind a trash-bin, and the other from behind a fire-escape. The surprised warlock managed to block one, but two didn't seem to be his lucky number. He was lifted into the air, courtesy of Neville's hex, and landed about six feet from his original position.

"Quickly!" hissed Hermione.

The boys stowed their wands, and darted out, hauling up the young man's limp body. "Gor, he weighs a ton!" gasped Neville.

Hermione grabbed Cormac's collar and yanked him out of the niche. "Quick, put him in here!"

It required a lot of huffing and stuffing, but they managed to set the blonde man up in the niche, leaving his wand tucked into his jacket, binding his hands and feet together. "Think it'll hold him?"

"I think it'll keep him quiet until we get out of here," said Hermione, reviving Cormac absentmindedly.

He flailed as he regained consciousness, whipping out his wand and looking about wildly. "Who stunned me?"

"It was an accident," said Hermione. "Sorry."

Cormac looked distinctly ruffled. "Oh," he said lamely. "No worries. Did we get him?"

"Yeah," said Harry, eyeing Hermione knowingly. "Neville got him."

Cormac looked even more perturbed. "Longbottom?"

"Yes, Cormac," Neville said irritably, "me. Now, if you're done gawking, can we get a move on? I'd personally like to get to Hogwarts and Dumbledore _before_ nightfall."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Apparating to the outskirts of Hogsmeade was easy. Making their way to the gates of Hogwarts was not. The quartet was dressed in Muggle garb, and while Diagon Alley was packed enough that nobody noticed them, it wasn't a Hogsmeade Saturday, so the streets of the village, though not completely empty, were cleared enough that their blatant twenty-first century dress was not only noticed, but admired and remarked upon as well.

"The farther we go, the less this seems like a good idea," said Harry.

"Just trust me on this," whispered Hermione.

"I _do_ trust you, Hermione," he said. "Really, I do. It's just that – and I don't know if you've noticed – but wizards don't seem to be very good at keeping secrets unless they're clinically paranoid, and then they're just crazy and try to take over the world!" Hermione rolled her eyes, but Harry pressed on. "Tom Riddle may not be widely known as Lord Voldemort _just_ yet, but he'll still have his supporters everywhere, and supporters mean spies, which means – "

"He'll know we've come to see Dumbledore," Hermione finished. "But, Harry, who was the only wizard Voldemort ever feared?"

He blinked. "Dumbledore?"

"Correct," Hermione said, sure to keep her voice low as people passed them. "Which means that even if he does know where we are, as long as we're within reach of Dumbledore, he'll keep his distance. As long as we make it clear we're on Dumbledore's side, he won't want anything to do with us."

"I dunno, Hermione," said Neville, his hands in his pockets. "Harry has a point. And anyway, according to Gran, when Voldemort wanted something on his first rise to power, be it followers, money, or possessions, association with Dumbledore didn't count as much of an obstacle."

"Look at Slughorn," Harry argued. "How many times did Voldemort try to have him 'recruited' just because of a _conversation_?!"

"To be fair, Harry, that conversation was crucial to Voldemort's downfall," Hermione stated. "Anyone would want the only other person to know how to kill them out of the way. Of course there were people watching Slughorn."

"Yes, but that's just it, Hermione. Voldemort had a _Malfoy_ follow us – "

"We don't know that he's a Malfoy," interjected Cormac.

Harry, Hermione, and Neville all looked at him, very unimpressed. "Cormac, please," said Neville, his voice flat. "Don't be thick."

"Voldemort had a _Malfoy_ follow us," Harry continued fervidly in a hushed voice, "and that was only in London. He could have spies on the lookout _everywhere_. Four other people came with him when he applied to be Defense teacher under Dumbledore! Who knows who's watching the place? I don't like the risk here, Hermione."

"On that note," said Hermione quickly, "if Voldemort _does_ have spies everywhere, even now, and even in Hogsmeade of all places, it would be best if we use our made-up names. It'll look less suspicious if the story gets back to him, and it'll be one less contradiction to amend."

"But yours _isn't_ a made up name, Hermione!" Harry hissed. "And when we _do_ get back to the future, Voldemort's going to know who you are because you gave him your real name!"

"What's he going to do?" Hermione challenged. "Have me listed by the Muggle-born Registration Committee? Oh, because we didn't already manage to avoid that, did we?"

"Could you take this just a little seriously?" Harry snapped.

"I am taking it seriously – _Pip_," Hermione assured him.

"Hermione, what if he does recognize you?" Harry whispered. "In the future, I mean."

"Why should he?" replied Hermione. "We never meet, we never see each other. I don't think I'll be much of a blip on his radar."

"But you _will_, Hermione, you will," said Harry, his eyes pleading with her to understand. "You're my best friend, then and now. What if he does remember you? Won't that make things that much more complicated?"

Hermione sighed. "All right, Harry. I'll go careful, and we'll all fly under the radar. But as the three of you have prominent surnames in the wizarding world, you _have_ to stick to the names I gave you. We can't have any extra Longbottoms, or Potters running around. It would make explaining things _much_ trickier."

"But you called me McLaggen," said Cormac, confusedly.

"Yes, well you're wearing your family crest around your neck, and that doesn't work well for blending in, Cormac," said Hermione. "Someone's bound to notice it sooner or later, and Voldemort being the clever bastard he is, he likely already would have, and reached the conclusion. The most we could do was _not_ give him your Christian name; not that he'd have noticed it in the future, given that pureblood families do like to recycle names."

"Certain names are particular to certain families," Cormac said in a low voice. "You wouldn't understand, as you're muggle-born, but even a Christian name can be as particular to a family as their surname. It's just how that story goes."

Hermione eyed him. "Somehow, I feel like I should be offended, but I'm not."

"You're not supposed to be," he said dismissively.

"Grand thing," growled Harry, and a submissive silence fell over the other three. "Fine, then we'll stick to our names. Just you try your hardest to fly under the radar."

"And we'll keep our mouths shut about time-travelling," added Neville. "You focus on convincing Dumbledore, Hermione. We'd all probably get all the details wrong."

She patted his arm. "That's very sweet of you; thank you, Neville."

Harry hissed through his teeth, took Hermione's hand, and continued up the path to Hogwarts. Hermione tried to keep positive and hopeful as to the chances of their success with Dumbledore, but a niggling feeling in the back of her head told her things weren't nearly as optimistic as she was trying to make out they were. There was mud everywhere, which told them it was still spring, and Hermione wondered briefly if it were Easter. If they were lucky, it would be, and students would be home. As it was, they hadn't turned out to be very lucky, being bested by a surprised Rabastan Lestrange, and then falling through time into Borgin and Burke's storeroom while _Lord_ _Voldemort_ was working the shift. No, things weren't working in their favor at all.

When they reached the gate, Neville gulped. Cormac chuckled at his nervousness, and Neville forgot it long enough to give Cormac a hearty glare. Harry and Hermione tried not to appear too nervous or worried; Harry was failing miserably, and Hermione wondered if the same concern was etched in plain sight on her face as well. They bravely made their way through the castle-gates, up the steps, and through the front doors. So far, no hitch in their plans.

But where was Dumbledore?

"He wouldn't be headmaster now, would he?" asked Hermione.

"I don't think so," said Harry. "Voldemort came back when he was first appointed Headmaster, and the Voldemort we saw in Borgin and Burke's doesn't look anything like the one Dumbledore refused to hire." He shook his head. "I think it'll be a fair while until then. Where d'you think we should look?"

The quartet looked about uncertainly. "Well, according to Professor McGonagall, he was the Transfiguration professor before he became Headmaster. Perhaps we should start there?"

Harry shrugged. "We may as well."

Classes must have been in session, because even though the halls were mostly empty, there were occasional students who passed them in the corridors. Beyond the vague registering of their rather bizarre get-up, however, in what was 1946, the four time-travelers were really paid no mind. Perhaps their muddied appearance, or their drawn and tired faces, or the small wound on the side of Harry's head that oozed a little kept the students from asking questions. Hermione didn't know, nor did she care. Her sole focus was the Transfiguration classroom and a conversation with Professor Dumbledore.

They arrived at the door, and, as though on cue, they all stopped.

"Somebody's got to open it," said Neville.

"Who, though?" said Harry.

"I think Hermione should do it," said Cormac rather decidedly. "I mean, you are the brains of this operation, aren't you?"

Hermione stared at the door. "I don't want to open it."

"Come on, Hermione," urged Harry. "It's Dumbledore. It's not like he's going to curse you as soon as you set foot inside."

"Fine," she said. "You open it."

"No," Harry retorted, nudging her towards the door. "You do it. Cormac's right, for once. You're the brains here."

Hermione hissed through her teeth, pinched Harry, and then marched up to the Transfiguration classroom and opened the door just a crack.

It had to be the most bizarre thing she'd ever done, even more so than when she and Harry had freed Sirius with the time-turner their third year. This was worse; no one had known what she and Harry had done, save Professor Dumbledore. Now, as she opened the door, thirty heads turned towards her in unison, each brow furrowing in confusion, concern, or disgust. At the head of the classroom stood a man in brightly colored robes, with twinkling eyes, half-moon spectacles perched on the end of his long crooked nose. He appeared to take in her form with no hint of bemusement whatsoever; it was as though he'd been expecting her for some time, and she'd finally decided to keep the appointment.

"Professor Dumbledore?"

"Can I help you, my dear?"

Hermione choked on the words that were trying to form in her throat. "I hope so."

"Is he there?" whispered Harry, peering over Hermione's shoulder. She elbowed him in the stomach, and he stepped away with a gasp.

"I realize this is rather – er, short notice, but we couldn't think of anyone else who might be able to help."

Harry, ignoring the warning the came with Hermione's elbow, pushed open the door a little bit more, and looked past his best friend to the, now, auburn-haired Dumbledore. "We wouldn't be here at all, sir, only we – er, seem to be in a bit of a fix, and we can't – well, _fix_ it."

Professor Dumbledore smiled, and waved to the steps behind him. "If you would be willing to wait in my office, I'd be more than happy to help sort out your predicament."

The only thing that could possibly have made Hermione happier was hearing Ron say, "I love you." She gripped a nearby Neville tightly by the shirt, and pulled him in the door. "Thank you, sir," she said. "Thank you."

The room was quiet as the four marched past Professor Dumbledore, into the office, and closed the door softly behind them. Putting his ear to the door, Harry heard the whispers break out immediately. "I think the hard part's over, wouldn't you say?"

"No!" said Hermione, as though this was the most ridiculous idea she'd ever heard. "We've still got to convince Dumbledore that we really are we say we are – "

"Are we telling him our real names then?" said Cormac, almost gloomily.

"Of course we are, dolt," snapped Hermione. "He's not going to trust us if he doesn't know who we are, and if he doesn't trust us to not be making trouble of some kind, it's not likely he'll help us. _That's_ going to be the hard part, Harry. How do you convince someone from the past that you're from the future? Anyone can make a prediction about the future – Trelawney did it for _sixteen_ _years_, for heaven's sakes!"

"We'll think of something, Hermione," Neville said, patting her shoulder.

" 'Course we will," said Harry. "We always do, don't we, Hermione?"

She sank down into a chair. "I certainly hope so, because if Dumbledore can't help us, I'm afraid we're stuck. Whatever curse Lestrange cast. . .I've never seen it before, and there's no telling what it did."

Cormac scoffed. "We _know_ what it did, Hermione," he said grandly. "It threw us back in time, that's what it did."

"Don't be ridiculous, Cormac," she snapped. "Spells don't throw people back in time. Time-warps, or worm-holes, or time-turners take people back in time. There is no _spell_ for that sort of thing. Whatever Lestrange cast blew apart the floor and triggered the thing that brought us to 1946. The question is, what does the curse do?"

"Well he'd be completely stupid to trigger a worm-hole," said Cormac.

"Well, he's not exactly sane, now is he?" retorted Hermione.

"I'm with her on this," said Harry. "Who in hell would send us back to 1946, and to what purpose? It wouldn't be for fun. Where's the fun in that? Anyway, you don't toss your enemies back to 1946 to be rid of them. They can make sure you're never born."

"You think it was an accident, Hermione?" said Neville.

"It's one possibility," she said. "But, that being the case, if it were an accident, where is Lestrange? And if it wasn't an accident, why would he send us here, to 1946 specifically?"

"You're actually entertaining the notion that he sent us here on purpose?" said Cormac laughingly.

"You heard him, didn't you, Cormac?" said Hermione. "Or were you just not listening. He stated, rather clearly, too, that _we_ would be the ones to fix the situation, indicating there is a problem. What problem could there possibly be other than, oh, I dunno, we killed their boss and are currently looking to lock them up in Azkaban?!" She rubbed her eyes. "Then again, it could have been an accident. He might have just been desperate to knock us on our backs and give himself an edge. We won't know for certain for a bit longer. We'll all just have to be patient."

"Maybe Dumbledore'll have an extra idea," said Harry soothingly.

"You're still going to trust the codger?" said Cormac. "After everything he put you all through, you're going to trust him with _this_?"

"There's nowhere safer than where Dumbledore is, Cormac," said Harry crossly.

"You flatter me, though I'm not sure I deserve it," said Dumbledore's voice from behind them.

Harry whipped around, eyes widened in surprise. "Sir."

"You must be quite a lot of trouble if you made the bother to come see me about it," he said, closing the door, and gesturing to Harry to sit down. "Now, my students are under the impression that we are all familiar with each other, although I am quite certain, on my part, we are not." He sat behind his desk and formed a steeple with his hands. "So, who are you, and how may I help you?"

The boys immediately looked to Hermione, and she cleared her throat, just a little bit nervous. "Well, you see, Professor, we're not exactly sure _how_ it happened, but we've fallen back in time."

Dumbledore said nothing for a moment, appearing to think it over. "Go on, if you will."

Hermione told him everything, their names, their story, her suspicions about Lestrange, trying her best to leave out the bits of the story that weren't essential to their getting home, and also to leave out as much about the second Wizarding War as was possible. She told him how they'd been tracking the Death Eaters, a point at which Dumbledore frowned, as though he didn't approve of young people hunting for full-grown Dark Wizards. Hermione explained about the curse Lestrange had cast, how it had splintered the floor, and the gaping black hole that had swallowed them for several hours before they had landed quite harshly in the storeroom at Borgin and Burke's.

Dumbledore was quiet a long time after the story finished, apparently thinking it over. At last he said, "I must admit, this is not the story I was expecting. I do think, however, that stranger things have happened, and it would behoove me to come to your aid, as you have apparently come to mine in your own time."

"Wait," said Cormac. "You actually. . .I dunno, _believe_ us?"

"Is there reason not to believe you, Mr. McLaggen?"

"Well, _no_, sir, it's just that. . .er, well, it's kind of a bizarre story. _I_ find it hard to believe, and it's happening to _me_."

Dumbledore nodded wisely. "Yes, well, the most shocking events are often the ones that require us to be the most unemotional. Your hesitance is understandable." He turned to Hermione. "Miss Granger, you didn't recognize the spell, but could you describe it for me? Its color, I mean."

Hermione thought. "Cerulean, I should say, with slight leanings towards indigo."

Dumbledore frowned. "I do believe I've only ever heard of one curse of that color," he said gravely, "and its effects can't be reversed easily."

"Which spell is it, Professor?" said Hermione, mentally reeling through a list of all the spells she knew, just in case she'd missed one.

"The Exsequor Curse. It is a curse that allows the caster to track his quarry. As far as I know, it has only ever been used once. Well," he amended, "that is, before your case."

"But, Professor," interjected Harry, "if we've fallen through time, how could we possibly be followed?"

Dumbledore steepled his fingers. "Did the caster follow you in your descent?"

"We don't know?"

"Is it likely he was aware of the possible outcome of his curse?"

"Very likely," said Hermione, "as it was his own manor."

"Then, because you do not know his whereabouts and the battle took place in his manor, you must assume he has landed in this time and has the ability to track you," Dumbledore said simply, as though this was the only logical explanation to their problem.

"If it was really a tracking spell," said Cormac thoughtfully, "why did it tear the floor to shreds?"

"Any spell can tear a wooden floor to shreds," said Dumbledore calmly, "if it is cast powerfully enough."

"If he did follow us," said Neville suddenly, "he'd know how to get in touch with Voldemort."

"Yup," agreed Hermione. The idea had already occurred to her, and now their lives had all suddenly become more complicated.

"That means that, even with the false identities in place, Voldemort could still find out who we really are," he continued.

"Yup," said Hermione again.

"Then he'll try to keep an even closer eye on us."

"Yup."

"He could try to kill Harry _now_," said Neville, his voice indicating that he was beginning to panic.

"I doubt it," Hermione said, still thinking.

Neville, Cormac, and Harry all stared at her. "Eh?" they chimed.

"Well, you said, Harry, that Voldemort made seven Horcruxes, because seven is the most magically powerful number, correct?"

Harry screwed up his face. "O – kay?"

"Harry, Voldemort didn't tell any of his followers about the Horcruxes. If Lestrange tells Voldemort that you defeated him, but doesn't know the biggest secret of them all, Voldemort could arrive at two possible conclusions: that you found him out and destroyed his Horcruxes, or that he still has Horcruxes available. From what we know of Voldemort, he thinks quite highly of himself, doesn't he?"

"Kind of an understatement, Hermione, but yeah," Harry replied, his face still uncertain.

"Odds are he won't even consider the possibility that you discovered his secret, he'll think that in the future he'll still have seven Horcruxes to fall back on. If that happens, and it seems the most likely scenario, Voldemort won't want to try to engage you until he has all seven Horcruxes, particularly if he knows you defeated him in our future."

A look of understanding dawned on Harry's face. "And that could give us time to find a way to reverse the effects of Lestrange's curse and find a way home!"

"Exactly," said Hermione. "I mean, there's still a chance that this could all go horribly wrong, but it seems quite small."

Harry nodded hurriedly. "Well, let's not dwell on that," he said, looking much relieved.

Hermione looked to Dumbledore, who simply smiled. "I suppose you'd like my assistance with your time issue?"

"Sir, we wouldn't ask if we weren't desperate," said Hermione. "We know you're terribly busy – "

He waved off the apology in Hermione's voice. "Nonsense. As much as I enjoy teaching, a diversion would not go amiss. I shall do what I can on my end, but I think a better question is, what will you four do with yourselves?"

They glanced at each other and shrugged. "Would it be worth it to peruse Hogwarts' library?" asked Hermione.

Dumbledore seemed impressed with her resolve. "I cannot say what the results would be of the time spent, but it hardly seems like it would be a fruitless endeavor."

"And we'll just. . .I dunno, help Hermione, I guess," said Harry.

Dumbledore hummed approvingly. "And the next all-important question: Where will you stay?"

The quartet exchanged glances again. "We're still working on that part," said Harry after a bit.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled knowingly, and he took up a quill and parchment, and began scribbling. "It seems rather foolish to ask if you are familiar with the Three Broomsticks Inn," he said. "Hand this over to Rosmerta – I suppose you know her as well – and ask if there happens to be a room available." He rolled the parchment into a tight scroll, tied it, and handed it over to Harry.

"Thank you, sir," Harry said. "Really, thank you."

Dumbledore waved off the thanks. "Just be careful. I've watched Tom Riddle grow up. He has enough charisma and charm to coerce many of his greatest opponents, and he has enough power to intimidate the rest, especially if their consciences are not enough to keep them in check. If he asked young Abraxas Malfoy to follow you – and I am sure he did, as Abraxas was in his pocket early on – he will have hired someone else to track you down and watch you. Do not quarrel; any sign of weakness will be your end." He looked at each of them in turn, as though making sure they understood clearly, and, apparently satisfied, nodded once. "Now, then, I must be off, and so must you. I have a class, and you've a room to reserve."


	5. Chapter 5

**_I'm back! Sorry that took solongpleasedonthurtme! _  
**

**_It turns out that real life is even more demanding than usual around the holidays. Halloween being the sacred tradition that it is, it demanded a party, and I was forced to comply. This led to two weeks, more or less, away from my beloved Tomione, and for that I do apologize.  
_**

**_I do intend to make these chapters longer as I go (e.g. Chapter 6), which is proving to be more difficult than usual. I don't suppose you'll accept that as an excuse for being so late.  
_**

**_Now, then, Hermione will kick herself at the end of this chapter, and some of you will, too. I know I did. The thing was, the reason she's kicking herself is because I purposely wouldn't let her use her whole brain, as I feel Hermione normally would. There happens to be a good reason for this. His name: Tom Riddle. He randomly decided to make an appearance in this chapter, and it was such an excellent performance, I felt I couldn't refuse, which means I was probably Imperio'd.  
_**

**_I hope you like this, though. Please review!  
_**

**_~AI  
_**

**Chapter 5**

The first few days at the Three Broomsticks passed in a hazy blur for Hermione; most of her time was split between infrequent visits to Dumbledore and the Hogwarts library. There was next to nothing that was even remotely informative on the subject of time-travel, and while she had managed to look up the spell Dumbledore had suggested, that was the closest she'd been to solving their puzzle. . .and it had had absolutely nothing to do with time travel.

The boys, while eager to help, were really, still boys. They managed to spend most of their time sleeping and eating, and while Harry and Neville did make an attempt to follow Hermione to the library, Harry was very quickly bored with the books, and Neville didn't understand most of what they were saying. Cormac, on the first day, had stayed behind at the Three Broomsticks, doing his damnedest to theorize on time travel, mostly by asking complete strangers what they made of the notion. It took all of Hermione's self-control not to hex him six ways from Sunday when she found out what he'd been up to, but she managed to intimidate him enough that he never did it again. From that time on, Harry stayed with him, keeping the popinjay's mouth in check as best he could, and Neville followed Hermione around the library.

It was the second Sunday after they arrived that a sudden complication arose. Hermione had, at Dumbledore's insistence, taken the afternoon away from the library. "You've taken careful notes, I assume," he'd said kindly. "Go back to the inn, mull things over, try to come up with a theorem on your own. It could give you the lead you need." So Hermione had returned from the castle, feeling quite glum about not being in close proximity to the books. Admittedly, Dumbledore was probably right: She'd have a greater chance of solving the problem if she looked through her notes, hypothesized, and then looked for confirmations of her hypothesis. As it was, there was going to be no hypothesizing today.

Harry had seen her, and came barreling out of the Three Broomsticks, when, much to their surprise, the beam had dislodged from above the door, and landed with a great _thwack!_ on his head. Harry had been knocked unconscious immediately, Hermione had given a little scream, and she and Neville rushed to his side, pulling him out from under the heavy piece of wood.

"We need to get him inside," she hissed to Neville. "Remember, his name is Pip."

Neville, being much stronger than Hermione, had lifted Harry onto his shoulder and dragged him up the stairs to their room. "Hermione, we need a Healer," he said once the door had closed behind them. Cormac stared dazedly at Harry, as though he couldn't believe he'd just been hit over the head and was bloodily unresponsive to the world.

"We can't have a Healer," Hermione contradicted. "Healers ask lots of questions, and we need to avoid questions as much as possible."

"Well, it's not like we have anything for him!" insisted Neville. "And we've no money to pay for an apothecary!"

Hermione could feel herself panicking. "Uh – look, I know, it's just. . . ." She waved her wand in a complex sort of way, and the wound on Harry's head closed, but just barely. "We'll think of something. I mean, we're right next to Hogwarts, there'll be something available."

"Madame Pomfrey," said Cormac.

"Too much attention," Hermione said. She swore under her breath, trying to think quickly. "The school!"

"What?" the two boys chimed.

"There'll be something in the Potions storeroom," she said. "I'll go look. We can make up some Essence of Dittany, and we'll close up his head, no problem." She took a nearby cloth from the table, rushed to the bathroom to dampen it, and then gave it to Neville. "Just hold this to the wound. And I'll be back as soon as I can."

With Neville and Cormac crouched around Harry, Hermione barreled down the stairs, and out into the streets of Hogsmeade. If she hurried she'd be able to find what she needed and be back before the hour was out. It was just a question of whether the forest would co-operate. There was no telling if the centaurs were still hostile, and she wasn't sure there weren't giant spiders in the forest yet. She'd rather there weren't, but there was no telling. It would be difficult for one Acromantula to reproduce on its own.

In fifteen minutes she reached the greenhouses and, as what felt like a necessary precaution, picked up a bit of yarrow, before continuing on to the Potions classroom. Lord knew how attentive Slughorn would be to the state of his inventory, but Hermione hoped he wouldn't notice that the dittany had gone missing. Even if it wasn't a likely scenario, the last thing they needed was for Dumbledore to ask if they'd seen anything.

She managed to slip past the students, though it wasn't very difficult, engrossed as they were in their own woes, and into the Potions classroom. Luckily for her it was deserted; Slughorn might not know any better, but if the professor she'd known was any indication, he was very chatty and there simply wasn't the time for that in her schedule. The storeroom was just across the way, and as she made her way softly to the door, Hermione hardly dared _breathe_ in case Slughorn's radar caught wind of her. She quickly slipped inside the door, and was faced with a tall pantry stacked with shelves full of phials and bottles, and pots of virtually every potion that would likely be made in the course of the year. This did not make her happy.

"Dittany," she muttered under her breath. "Dittany, dittany. Come on. . .where are you?" She lifted lids, tipped phials, held each and every bit of glassware up to the light, trying to hurriedly spot that brown, life-saving liquid. A small brown bottle suddenly popped in her vision, and Hermione grasped it desperately. She unscrewed the top, sniffed it – a move she knew would have garnered her the censorship of Professor Snape – and, satisfied that things were as they should be, slipped out of the closet.

As she made her way towards the door, there was a rustling coming from behind Slughorn's office door. Not waiting to see what would happen, or even bothering to hide, Hermione made a run for it, sprinting the last six feet to the door, flinging it open, and hurling herself out into the hallway. The door clanged shut behind her, but Hermione hardly noticed, as she'd just flung herself headlong into a group of three boys all of whom were staring at her, probably shocked that this vixen from Hell with the wild bushy hair had just come catapulting from their Potions classroom. They stared at her, and for a moment, Hermione stared at them. They were all Slytherins, only one was extremely handsome, and they all looked as though they couldn't decide if they should be disgusted, amused, or terrified at her sudden appearance.

Attractive as the handsome one was, Hermione didn't have time to ogle. With a hastily muttered apology, she launched to her feet, and took off down the corridors again like a shot. She checked the bottle, just to make sure it was still there, but didn't let up her pace. _I have to get to Harry; I have to get back to Harry._ She narrowly dodged Dumbledore at the castle entrance, shouting something unintelligible over her shoulder about Harry's head being split open. _No telling how deep that cut is; maybe if we dampen the yarrow with dittany. . .or maybe just put it on top._ She was through the gates, and there was a stitch developing in her chest. _Need a blade; I don't trust slicing charms. Rosmerta should have one._

She didn't stop running, even when she saw Hogsmeade just in the distance. _Come on, Hermione!_ She had hurry; head wounds were extremely tricky, and Harry would need all his faculties if he was going to protect their group. _I hope the boys didn't try anything_. That had a lot of potential to be a unmitigated disaster, or a very happy accident, and she didn't like the odds of either one.

Hermione rounded a corner rather sharply, and was suddenly met by a barrage of hexes. Her speed had caused her to skid on the corner, and she narrowly missed several nasty jinxes. As luck would have it, though, a Stupefy caught her shoulder, and centripetal force tossed her over an embankment and down into a ditch. Hermione didn't think twice before casting a Disillusionment Charm. She didn't know who was up there, or why they were waiting for her, she just knew she didn't want to be seen. A Silencing Charm went around her feet, and Hermione got up slowly, looking, listening waiting for her attackers to show themselves.

They did, eventually.

Six young men came peering over the embankment, each one looking strangely reminiscent of the boys she'd studied alongside at Hogwarts: The two bulky ones had to be a Crabbe and Goyle, and reedy one was probably a Nott. There were two very handsome men who looked frighteningly like Rodolphus Lestrange, and one young man who, for his troll-like features, had to be the grand-sire of Thorfinn Rowle. They stared down at the embankment, eyeing it carefully.

"Where do you think she went?" said the Crabbe.

One of the Lestrange twins pointed his wand to a spot just left of Hermione. "I think she's still there," he said coldly.

Hermione didn't wait for him to cast a spell. She flung an Expulso at the lot of them, and then took off, running in the general direction of Hogsmeade.

There was some loud cursing, shouts of pain, and then several thuds as her pursuers fell down the embankment, and launched themselves after her, chasing her footprints in the mud. She had a good lead on them, though, and spells coming from the tips of their wands were flying in ever direction. A few whizzed rather closely by her, but most were shot in completely different directions. Hermione paused for just a second send another Expulso over her shoulder. The Crabbe and Goyle went down, unconscious, and the remaining three faltered in their steps, looking to their comrades. Hermione could see it was Nott and the Lestrange twins; Rowle must have taken the brunt of her first jinx.

The men didn't stop for long, and Hermione could feel herself running out of air and energy. She scrambled back up to the road, and was running pell-mell towards the Hogsmeade, turning to glance behind for just a moment, when –

OOMPH!

– she collided with another person and fell flat on her back. Having lost her concentration, the Disillusionment Charm cancelled, and Hermione found herself looking into the very handsome face of a one Tom Riddle. His surprise was quickly masked, and he began to get up, his voice forming the offer to help her as well. Hermione didn't hear the rest of what he said, because her attention was drawn to the three figures rushing towards them. They didn't seem to register that their boss was present, and Hermione wasn't feeling inclined to alert them. She shot a Stunner at Nott, and it hit him squarely in the face, taking him off his feet.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Voldemort take a step back, eyeing her with interest. Unable to spare the brain power to consider what that might mean, Hermione blocked an unrecognized jinx from one twin, and fired a Cutting Hex at his brother. The second just barely managed to put up his shield, and his brother started in surprise. Hermione took advantage of the split second, and tossed him backward in a Body Bind, dodging a fiery Crucio in the process. Two down, one to go, and it didn't look like Voldemort was all that inclined to help.

The second twin had unconsciously stepped between Hermione and his brother, and fired an Expulso. Hermione blocked it with a sharp crack, and sent a Slicing Hex between his legs. It fizzled out before it hit the bound twin, but Lestrange, after firing a jinx that Hermione side-stepped, turned to look down at his brother. Hermione didn't wait, and as he turned to look back at her, she slapped him with a Body Bind, and he went down, landing on top of his brother, who grunted, even in his limb-locked position. She was about to readdress the Voldemort problem to her right, when her wand suddenly shot out of her hand. Her eyes followed it, and her lips tightened when it landed neatly in Voldemort's waiting hand.

He considered her wand a long moment, and then allowed his gaze to resettle on Hermione. "Most impressive," he said, face pleased. "For a Mudblood, anyway."

Hermione decided it was best not to let her panic show, and held out her arms. "Well? You've got me defenseless, have at it."

Voldemort smiled. "No."

Hermione could swear she'd misheard him, but his mouth had formed the word, and it had been said in his voice. . .unless she was going mad. "You're going to pass up the opportunity to put a filthy Mudblood in her place?"

The smile became one of amusement. "You should consider yourself lucky that _I_ didn't join the fray."

"You don't, usually, do you? Why should today be any different?" Hermione challenged. Voldemort simply stared at her, so she sighed and took a different approach. "I'm guessing you've had contact with Rabastan Lestrange, then?"

Voldemort chuckled. "Oh, you _are_ clever." He took a few tentative steps towards Hermione, as though checking to see just how much of a Gryffindor she was. He looked even more pleased when she didn't move. "Yes, dear Rabastan has been to see me. He said you were – how did he put it? Ah, 'the cleverest bitch her age,' I think, were his words. I must say, I've often been disappointed by what ordinary people call 'clever,' but it seems he was quite right."

"What else did 'dear Rabastan' tell you?" Hermione said.

Voldemort pretended to be cross. "That's a bit personal, don't you think?"

"No," she said flatly, and he laughed.

"I suppose not," he replied with a shrug. "Very well, if you _must_ know – and being a Mudblood, I know you must – he informed me of your real identities, told me that you'd had a hand in my rather regrettable fall, and said he'd been trying to do you in himself for several months without any success. Does any of this correlate to the story in your head?"

"How should I know?" Hermione retorted. "I'm just a Mudblood."

"You're a clever bitch," said Voldemort sternly, "and pretend, stupidity doesn't suit you. Tell me, Muddy, how much of it is true?"

Hermione took a deep breath. She was still alive, and she was happy about that, but she had to get back to Harry, and getting back to Harry wasn't going to happen if she was stuck here talking to Voldemort. "If I did have a hand in your not-so-regrettable downfall," she said, "why would I tell you? What good would that do me?"

Voldemort made a sound in the back of his throat. His eyes made it clear that he was now perfectly aware that she wasn't the normal 1946 broad. "Rabastan said you were a Gryffindor."

"Indeed."

"Gryffindors aren't naturally intelligent, Miss Granger."

"The Sorting Hat nearly put me in Ravenclaw."

He smiled. "There we are. And why didn't it?"

Hermione shrugged, and gave him the answer she thought would most irritate him: "Dumbledore."

She was right. The smile disappeared, and Voldemort rolled his eyes. "Of course. Dumbledore the saint."

"There's always time for you to convert," said Hermione loftily. She wondered for a brief moment if sarcasm was a wise decision when confronting Voldemort in a wandless state, but she pushed the thought aside.

Voldemort let out a small laugh. "Witty in the face of potential death," he said. "A mark of your house."

"I picked it up over time," Hermione said with a shrug. "If we're just going to be chatting, may I have my wand back, please?"

Voldemort laughed again, this time seriously amused. "Oh, no, no, I think not," he said. "You've not answered my question, and I'd very much like to know just what I'll have to tolerate and who I will be forced to kill."

Hermione nodded. "Yes, and that would be a fascinating conversation, I'm sure, but my best friend is currently lying up in a room with his head split open. Until I can fix him up and be sure that he's all right, you're just out of luck."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. "I could torture it out of you, Her-my-o-knee."

Hermione nodded. "You could. But I've been tortured quite extensively in my past, and I can assure you, you'll get nowhere." Okay, so perhaps that wasn't entirely true, but he didn't need to know that. There was no call for giving Lord Voldemort the incentive to torture anyone.

"I know you're bluffing, Muddy. Don't think you can slip past me so easily." He seemed to be thinking it over anyway. "If I were to – _allow _ you to pass onward and assist your friend, it would require," he stepped closer, "a very particular bargain."

The warning klaxon sounded in Hermione's head. "Just what sort of bargain did you have in mind, Vol-de-mort?"

He smiled at her cheek. "It could take dear Mr. Potter quite some time to recover from that terrible blow to the head," he said, painting a picture of concern onto his face; it would have been convincing if she hadn't watched him try to kill her best friend on multiple occasions.

"It could," she agreed.

"Meet me at this spot in exactly a week, and we'll discuss in depth what dear Rabastan seems to not know." His head was tilted to the side, and his eyes were sparkling with intelligence. It was so handsome it was almost unbearable.

"That doesn't seem fair," she said.

He scoffed. "In what way is that not fair?"

"You're the only one of us allowed to ask questions?"

"I'm letting you tend to your best friend, aren't I?"

Hermione nodded. "You are. But I think we both know that's because torture and abduction are off the table."

It looked like Voldemort was about to jig, he was so pleased. "Very well. How about a game of 20Q? Is that _fair_ enough for you, Gryffindor?"

Hermione considered this. "Yes," she said. "Yes, it does seem fair. 20Q, and no lies or loopholes."

Voldemort pretended to be offended. "Would I lie?"

"Yes," said Hermione, "and it just so happens that I know a hell of a lot about you, so if you even _try_, I'll know it, and our deal is off."

She could see Voldemort considering the ramifications of calling this bluff as well. Hermione knew she was playing into his hand, but she was also playing to his insecurity about the Horcruxes and his desire for helpful information. She was a master at 20Q, having played it with her parents when she was very small and with just the right luck she could wheedle information out of Voldemort that he wouldn't give anyone else. It just depended on how badly he wanted to know about the future.

"Very well," he said abruptly. "No lies, and no loopholes. Wizard's honor." He held out her wand. "We have an understanding, then?"

Hermione took it gingerly, happy to have the slender piece of wood in her hand again. "We have an understanding."

Voldemort chuckled gleefully. Clearly he thought he'd just won the day. "Wonderful chatting with you, Miss Granger. Good day." And with that, he Disapparated, leaving his minions to solve their problems themselves.

Hermione stared for another few moments at where Voldemort had been standing, and then, having cancelled her spells in one brush of her arm, she Disapparated back to the Three Broomsticks. She could kick herself for not having thought of it earlier; it had been a chance to avoid making a deal with the devil.


	6. Chapter 6

**_I would just like to remind everyone, I don't own Harry Potter. Wish I did, because then college would be the greatest snap EVER, but I don't._  
**

**_Because Tom is an inherent ass, he decided to show up again. I'm quickly becoming addicted to his conversations with Hermione, so we'll definitely be seeing more and more of them as we go.  
_**

**_Note: It would be very kind if, in the future, I could find a beta. If anyone feels up to long waits and strange convoluted plots, please message me. I can't help but think a beta could help make this tripe better.  
_**

**_Enjoy, if you dare, and please review!  
_**

**_~AI  
_**

**Chapter 6**

"Are you insane?!" Harry exploded. "_You_ made a deal with _Voldemort_ to tell him about what happens in the _future_?!"

"Good God, Harry, he'd already seen Lestrange. Dumbledore was right, he did follow us here. Which means that we've still got that tracking spell on us."

"So Lestrange could show up at any minute," said Cormac.

"I don't think Lestrange will," said Hermione, "but the other Death Eaters did, which means Voldemort's probably making good use of it."

"_Hermione_!" Harry moaned. "Why wouldn't you deny it? Why would you confirm _anything_ Lestrange said?"

"Voldemort had my wand, Harry," she said. "He knows I'm Muggleborn, he knows your surname is Potter, and that you'd been rapped over the head with a beam. . . . What do you suggest I should have done?"

Harry rubbed the side of his head not currently bleeding. "I don't know!" he said. "_Not_ tell Voldemort we're from the future? _Not_ consent to play _20 Questions with him_!"

Hermione sighed and sat down. "Yes, okay, I understand, and you have every right to be upset."

"Damn right I do!" Harry snapped.

"I just – Harry, I think there's an opportunity here."

"An opportunity for what?" he and Cormac chimed together.

"To get inside Voldemort's head, Harry." He didn't look convinced. "I told Voldemort that I am familiar with some very intimate details about his past. He'll likely try to lie his way through it anyway, just to see how much I really _do_ know, but that's not the point. If I can catch him up in a lie, whatever that lie might be, it'll give us insight into what's happening inside his head. And if he sticks to the bargain and doesn't lie – which I'm not anticipating – it'll still give us a clue as to what we're dealing with. The better we know him, the easier this could be."

"True," said Harry, "and while that sounds like a good idea _theoretically_, what are you going to do when he starts asking questions about you? You are brilliant, Hermione, but this – this was truly _stupid_."

Hermione huffed belligerently. "_This_, Harry Potter, was the only way I was going to get back quickly enough to stop up your head."

He opened his mouth to argue, and closed it again. She'd made a fair point. He scratched the yarrow poultice bandaged to his head, and Hermione pulled his hand away; worrying the wound would only slow its progress. "I want to go with you."

"No, Harry."

"Hermione – "

"Harry, I know you think it's best, and maybe you're right. But the agreement was me and him, me and Voldemort. Lestrange likely already told him you were the one responsible for his death; if Voldemort sees you, it'll just be all out war, deal or no deal."

"Then take Neville."

"I need Neville to be up at Hogwarts looking for time-pockets," Hermione said.

"Cormac and I can do that," Harry protested.

"_You_ are not to move until your head has been fully closed, and when you are better," Hermione said, raising her voice to be heard above his protestations, "you are not to leave this room until I have an idea of what Voldemort is planning."

"What am I supposed to do?" said Cormac, obviously feeling left out.

"You are going to stay with Harry and sit on him if he tries to leave this room," Hermione stated authoritatively.

"What?!" said Harry, even more upset about this. "That's ridiculous!"

"Harry, they'll know who you are," Hermione said forcefully. "The _last_ thing we need is for me to be away wheedling information out of Voldemort, only to come back and find you've carked it in 1946." Harry was looking petulant. "You and I both know that no matter how much I beg, you will not stay put unless someone else is here to sit on you. The time-pockets could be quite helpful to us getting home, and if it's possible that researching them won't have to wait for much longer, I'd like to employ Neville's time."

Harry was still looking petulant. "Fine."

"Look," said Hermione, sitting down next to him and putting her arm about his shoulders, "if he get's to be too much, you can always stun Cormac to make yourself feel better."

"Hey!" he protested.

"Work with me on this?" pleaded Hermione.

Harry eyed her angrily. "Fine," he groused. "Fine. I'll stay here and play ninny."

"That's all I'm asking," Hermione said gently.

"But don't think I'm doing it because you said I had to," he snapped. "I'm doing it because I want to, and that's all there is to it."

"That's fine too," Hermione answered. Neville and Cormac were both looking genuinely bemused at Harry's sudden change of attitude. "Shall I ask Madame Rosmerta for some Butterbeers, Harry?"

"No!" he erupted. "Don't coddle me! I'll be fine!" He slouched back against the sofa and folded his arms, looking for all the world like a petulant child. "I'm just angry at what you're making me do, that's all."

"I'm very sorry," said Hermione, "but it's for your own good."

"For my own good," Harry repeated under his breath. "Pah! Like you know what's good for me any better than the Dursleys did."

"Harry, all I'm asking you to do is stay put until I've concluded business with Voldemort. I'm not going to tell you to stop using magic."

"It feels the same way," he mumbled.

Hermione patted his knee. "I know, Harry. I know."

"I don't think you do!"

Hermione sighed, deciding that now, just after he'd become conscious after a head injury, was probably not the best time to argue with him. Concussions tended to do that to people, and the most she could do was be understanding.

"You're right, Harry," she said after a bit. "I don't know." He looked at her, eyes hopeful. "But you're still not leaving this room until after my meeting with Voldemort."

He swore loudly, and kicked the table.

"Do that all you like," she said. "I will not budge on this issue."

In another fit of petulance, Harry lay down lengthwise on the sofa, and rolled over to face the cushions. He was still muttering under his breath, but Hermione wasn't all that concerned. As long as he didn't disturb the yarrow's work, it would be all right. She'd have to keep a closer eye on him, maybe even put him in a Body Bind before she left, but things would likely be fine. It seemed that Voldemort, once again, had underestimated Harry. If he kept up the same pattern, as he had in the future – well, no one was saying it would be a cinch, but they'd be able to get out of this almost as they had before.

Hermione cringed inwardly. She'd rather not go through all that again, to be honest. If there were a secondary way, an _easier_ way, she'd be more than thrilled to take that route. Of course, Voldemort being Voldemort, that wasn't likely to happen any time soon. He'd probably follow them to the ends of the earth, casting as many Avada Kedavras as was humanly possible in the hope that at least _one_ hit Harry.

She plopped down into a chair near the window, staring out at the Scottish spring. Perhaps, if she negotiated with Voldemort properly, he'd leave them alone until they could find their way back to the future. An ungodly snort made its way past her adnoids. Voldemort would probably publicly declare his love for and propose to Bellatrix before he let them out of his sight.

Hermione rubbed her eyes and slumped down in her chair. This wasn't at all what she'd had in mind for them. Of course, just their luck, Lestrange _would_ follow them through time, and he _would_ tell Voldemort everything he could about the future. If they _did_ manage to get back again, there was no telling what sort of future they'd be living in, or if they would exist at all. And she had a week to consider all factors, all variables, do the math, and determine what questions she ought to be asking. _No pressure or anything, Hermione. Just your lives and well-being at stake._

With that thought in mind, there was nothing for Hermione to do but to pull up a sheet of paper, sit down, and begin diagramming. First she measured out the Horcrux Problem: How many Horcruxes had been made already, and would they have been hidden? If not, it wasn't likely they were just hanging around Voldemort's flat, waiting to be discovered by some hapless idiot who just _happened_ to stop for a visit. It was equally possible, Hermione noted, that Voldemort did hold them at home, and he'd simply protected them with very nearly impenetrable wards. If _that_ were the case, whatever poor sod tried to break in, common thief or not, would probably suffer an extremely painful death for his pains.

There was also a small problem she liked to call 'Pureblood supremacists,' otherwise known as Death Eaters. How many did he have? Who were the families? How loyal were those families, and what functions did they serve? She knew the Lestranges, Malfoys, Crabbes, Goyles, and Notts were all likely part of the scheme already. What she didn't know was how far the web stretched, if it was still confined to just Britain, or if it had spilled over onto the continent. If it _did_ spill over to the continent – and while her history books didn't indicate that it had, it was a heavy possibility – it was a question of _who_ was under Voldemort's control, and how to get them out from under it.

Three hours into her charting, Neville brought her a cup of tea and offered her a meal. Hermione declined as politely as possible, keeping her nose buried to the paper and her quill full of ink. The last thing she needed was a distraction from this. The tea perked up her attention just a bit, but it did nothing for her flagging energy. She'd just run from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts and back, pausing for a friendly game of Kill-the-Mudblood on the way. Her body was crying out for rest, and Hermione was duly ignoring it. _Half to think of the questions_, she kept saying to herself. _Think up something he can't sneak out of._

Easier said than done. Ten minutes after ingesting the tea, which she'd begun to think Neville had laced with a light sleeping draught, Hermione was asleep, head down and stuck to the pieces of parchment, the ink smudging her cheek.

It was bright Scottish sunlight streaming across her face that caused Hermione to wake with a start the next morning. She sat bolt upright in the chair, stretching her joints, straining to hear. Nothing. Well, almost nothing. There were light snores coming from the living room, and soft voices out on the street below. Hermione frowned. Voices. . . .she shouldn't be able to hear anything; the window was –

Ah, but it wasn't. The window had been opened in the night. By whom? Not Neville, surely. Neville wasn't so daft as to leave a window open, not at night. Cormac? She shuddered just a little bit, but quickly put all thought of Cormac sneaking in to open a window out of her head. The culprit was sitting about five feet a way, a condescending smile on his face.

Hermione sighed. "I'd ask how you got in, but that seems a stupid question."

Voldemort's smile showed a set of perfect teeth. "Indeed," he replied.

"That being the case, I'll restrict my question to, 'What are you doing here?' More to the point, I think."

Voldemort nodded. "Indeed, it is." There was no sign that he was going to answer at all.

"Is that it, then?" Hermione asked, trying her hardest not to snap. "You just sneaked into our suite to watch us sleep?"

Voldemort chuckled. "Hardly, I should think. That seems rather sentimental, and I," his eyes flashed, "don't do sentiment."

"Yes," said Hermione thoughtfully. "It is rather a human behavior, and we all know you're not human."

Voldemort eyed her warily. "Is this the part where you add a quip about how I'm less than human?"

Hermione huffed. "I _was_, but there doesn't seem much point, anymore."

Voldemort frowned. "How rude."

"Yes, well, you kill people," Hermione returned. "That seems to be just a bit worse."

"Each death serves a valid purpose," he said softly, examining his nails.

"Such as?"

Voldemort snorted. "You're a clever broad, Muddy," he said. "I'm sure you can figure it out."

"Recreation does not qualify as a valid purpose, Tom Riddle."

His eyes flashed. "I've not been called that name by an inferior for many, many years," he said.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "This again?"

"You think we're equals?" he asked, the hint of a laugh tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I know we are," said Hermione. "But that's not the point. Why are you here? Thinking to peek ahead at next week?"

Voldemort snorted. "I hardly need to peek ahead to next week to know you were bluffing through your teeth yesterday."

"Was I?" she challenged.

Voldemort leaned forward in his seat. "You know nothing about me, Muddy, and you would do well to remember it."

Hermione nodded. "Begging your pardon. I didn't know it was common knowledge to all your followers that you're a half-blood who murdered his father and grandparents for. . . .well, I'm going to assume practice."

Voldemort stared at her for a very long moment. "Dumbledore told you as much, I presume?"

"Who told is irrelevant. You and I both know it's true, and we both know that those Pureblood families under your thumb _don't_ know about it. I find it hard to believe they'd follow you otherwise."

Voldemort probably could have looked more displeased, but Hermione didn't think she'd be keen to see it. "Clearly my skills are going to waste, if I'm being put on the spot by a _Mudblood_."

Hermione shook her head. "Not to waste. You're just rusty. I'm sure with a bit of a Gryffindor challenge, you'll be back to your full game in no time."

Voldemort smirked, but the displeasure lingered on his face. "You _would_ attempt flattery, Muddy. It doesn't work with me, you should know."

"Actually," Hermione drawled, "I've heard it does. But that's also irrelevant. You still haven't answered my question."

Voldemort huffed. "Oh, really, Granger, do I _need_ a reason for everything I do?"

"Yes," she deadpanned. "And that's the first time you've used my surname. Bravo, I didn't know you had it in you."

Voldemort snorted. "Irrelevant," he cheeked.

Hermione pursed her lips. "So?"

"So what?"

"Why are you here?"

"Perhaps I just fancied watching you sleep."

"That's a very sentimental thing to do, Mr. Riddle, and we agreed a moment ago that you don't do sentiment."

He chuckled. "So what if I did sneak a peek at next week's questions?"

"Very funny," said Hermione, "as I haven't written down anything."

Voldemort stood from his chair and stalked towards her. "Perhaps I found myself enthralled with the Mudblood who defeated my friends," he said, his hands on the arms of her chair, face inches away.

Hermione leaned forward so their noses were almost touching. "Voldemort doesn't have friends. Voldemort has followers."

"What would you know about friends, Muddy?" he smirked.

"To have friends requires sentiment."

He laughed again, pulling away and leaning against the desk. "True enough. They aren't my friends. The Lestrange twins maybe, but I don't like them, and the others can't spare a third of a brain between them."

"What about the Black family?" Hermione said. "I'm sure they could spare a wizard for you?"

"They could," he said. "But I've yet to decide if I like them, either."

"One of their daughters falls in love with you," Hermione said casually. What would he do with the information?

He smirked again. "Very funny, Muddy."

"It's true."

His eyes glinted. "Is that so?"

"Indeed."

"I do hope she doesn't simper."

Hermione hummed at that. "It depends on your definition of simpering, but normal people would say not. Then again," she looked him up and down, "you're not exactly a good measure for normal, are you?"

He seemed flattered. "Does she possess a functioning brain?"

Hermione thought. "You know, I don't know. She was very powerful, so I suppose she must have, on some level." She wrinkled her nose. "She did buy whatever you fed her though, no questions asked, so maybe her brain didn't function on its own."

Voldemort snorted. "And here I thought the interesting conversation would come to me next Saturday."

"Oh, that would be funny, but _you_ came _here_, and you still haven't said why."

Voldemort huffed. "Fine. I was bored this morning."

"And you thought dropping in here would make you less bored?"

"Well, we are having a conversation, and it's proved to be engaging. Checkmate."

Hermione sighed. "How long were you here?"

"It was a good ten minutes before you woke up."

"Let me see if my Mudblood brain is interpreting this properly: You were bored."

"Yes."

"So you broke into my room."

"Yes."

"And waited ten minutes for me to wake up."

"Yes."

"To have a conversation about. . .nothing important."

Voldemort shrugged. "Indeed."

"You realize, of course, that sneaking into someone else's room is frowned upon by most of society."

He laughed. "Please. I am Lord Voldemort. Do you honestly think _society_ holds much sway over me?"

"Well, you are courting Pureblood supremacy."

He leaned forward again. "It may have escaped your notice, but a vast majority of Pureblood families are endowed with currency."

"You're courting their money?" Things began to make much more sense to Hermione then.

"How else is one to gain power?" he retorted. "Supporting the underdog will only take one so far up the ladder. The act was useful when I was student; it had to be shed when I began in the real world. Honestly, Muddy, why do you think I'm pandering to the obscenity that is the Pureblood aristocracy?"

Hermione shrugged. "I thought it was because you were a bigoted arsehole. Now I see it's because you're a self-important, bigotry-encouraging arsehole." And there was no way she would be able to convince the Purebloods of this, mostly because she was a Muggleborn and held no sway with them, but also because Voldemort was as skilled a liar as any she'd ever seen, and he'd probably lie his head off to keep the cash flowing.

Voldemort frowned. "Not exactly one for politeness are you?"

"Considering how many times you've tried to kill my best friend, I don't think you have much room to ask for politeness," she said coolly.

"You're going to hold that against me?" he said, his eyes wide and innocent. "I'm wounded."

Hermione snorted. "But you're not dead, so really, how satisfied can I be?"

Voldemort chuckled. "If you weren't so muddy, I'd be more willing to show you."

Hermione nearly gagged. "I'd pass anyway, thanks."

Voldemort was clearly intending to have fun at her expense. "Now, now, Muddy, that isn't even a little bit true."

He might have said something else, but Hermione couldn't know. There was a loud commotion in the hall, and then Harry came bursting in the door, wand at the ready. His face flushed when he saw Voldemort, and Hermione had all of two seconds to disarm him. She managed it just as the spell was peeking out the tip of his wand; the last thing they needed was for Death Eaters to descend en masse. Judging by the look on Harry's face, he was having trouble deciding whether to be angrier at Hermione, or Voldemort.

"Could I speak to you in the hall, Harry?" she said, pushing him out the door.

"I wish you would," he hissed.

Hermione closed the doors with a snap. "What are you doing?"

"What am _I_ doing?" he retorted. "That's rich, coming from you. Why is _Voldemort_ in your room?"

"He was bored, so he came by to do a little spying. That's his story, anyway; I haven't decided whether or not I believe it." She handed him back his wand. "Now, _if_ you don't mind explaining, what the hell is going on?"

"We heard voices coming from your room," Harry said, "but Neville and Cormac were with me. I thought you might be in danger, and I panicked." He didn't look remotely ashamed. "Did he hurt you at all?"

"No, Harry, I'm fine. The most insulting thing he's done today has been to call me 'Muddy,' and insist that if I were a Pureblood, he'd make me his whore. Nothing I haven't heard before."

Harry's face went white. "Malfoy said that to you?"

"No," she sighed. "Theodore Nott said it to me once in the library. Honestly, Harry, there's no cause to be all that fussed." A sudden thought occurred to her, and she opened the door again. Voldemort had one of her drawers open and was rifling through her things. "What the hell are you doing?!" With a wave of her wand the drawer banged shut, narrowly missing the Dark Lord's thin fingers.

"It's incredibly Gryffindor of you to not ward your things," he said dryly, "especially when you've left an enemy alone in your room."

"You can't just _go_ through my things at your leisure!" she screeched, a hand on Harry's arm to keep him from starting a fight with Voldemort that he'd likely lose.

"I assure you," he drawled, "I _can_."

It was all Hermione could do not to let Harry just have at him. "Get out," she said. "And I will meet you on Sunday."

"I'm not much inclined to wait that long," he said. "Downstairs in a half-hour."

"We agreed next Sunday."

"Let's change it, then," he chirruped. "Half an hour. I'll see you there, Muddy."

"I doubt it."

He made his way to the window and slug a leg out over the edge. "I will see you there, or I will come back up here. Your choice."

He _would_ return, Hermione knew it. "Fine. I'll meet you downstairs. One hour."

Voldemort sighed. "No, Muddy. _Half_ an hour."

"I have to take care of three other boys. _One_ hour, or you can entertain yourself by taking apart my wards for the next week. Your choice." She tacked the last bit on in an eerily good imitation of him, which seemed to please Voldemort to no end.

"All right, Muddy. I'll let you win, but just this once." He held up a finger. "One hour."

Hermione nodded curtly, and waited for him to leap out the window. She didn't much care how he landed; it was Voldemort. Surely he knew enough magic to keep himself intact. Harry opened his mouth, but she covered it quickly, putting her finger to her lips. He looked confused, but nodded. Hermione waved her wand. "Finite Incantatem." There was a spark, and a Listening Spell dissipated. She turned to Harry. "He wouldn't be Lord Voldemort if he didn't try to eavesdrop just a little."

Harry nodded. "I suppose you're right. I'm sorry I burst in like this."

She waved off the apology. "It's fine. Get Neville. We need him to look up the pockets, and we need him to do it now."


	7. Chapter 7

**_Sorry for the late update! It's NaNoWriMo, and I've simply not had the time. As it is, I made this one extra long to make up for the lack of two chapters. Of course, it would have been long anyway, as Tom and Hermione are playing 20Q, and I didn't feel particularly inclined to draw that out. That would have simply taken too long. _  
**

**_Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, please forgive the lateness and poor quality. I had to leave it for a couple of weeks without a continuous look. Review and tell me what you think of their exchange!  
_**

**_And because we all weren't already clear on this, I own nothing. If I did, I'd be in college.  
_**

**Chapter 7**

Neville had been all for going out the front entrance of The Three Broomsticks. Hermione had shot down that notion immediately. "I understand that none of us give a flying fart in space about what he thinks he can do, but it would behoove us not to let _him_ know that. Let him think he has the upper hand; it'll be safer." The boys had been cross at the idea, but agreed, and Neville snuck down the stairs and out the back door. Hermione had watched to be sure he had no trouble, and when he had safely made it to the edge of Hogsmeade, she turned back to Cormac and Harry.

"Stay here."

"You are _not_ facing that psychopath alone," said Harry loudly.

"Well, you certainly aren't coming with me," she retorted.

"Hermione – "

"Harry, you've not yet fully recovered from that blow to the head; I'm not letting you downstairs to sit across from some megalomaniac, whose sole purpose is to kill you! It's not happening."

Harry opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it again with an audible 'clack.' He looked like he was seriously debating hexing Hermione into letting him go along. "Fine," he said. "Then you take Cormac with you."

"Cormac is staying here to guard you," she said.

"Why do _I_ have to guard him?" the boy in question whined.

"Unless you'd like to go downstairs and play 20Q with Voldemort," Hermione replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Tea, Harry?" said Cormac, his voice a little high.

"Dammit, Hermione!" yelled the bespectacled boy. "You can't be down there alone with him!"

"There's going to be a whole tavern, Harry," she said.

"They could be under Imperio."

"Harry, you can't Imperio a whole tavern. No one can, not even Voldemort – although, that would be, admittedly, very impressive." Leave it to him to try, as well.

"Hermione, I _don't_ have a good feeling about this."

She caught him up in a hug. "I understand, Harry, but you have to trust me." She took his face between her hands. "_Trust me_, okay?"

He eyed her intently for a long moment, and then nodded. "Fine. But at the first sign of trouble – "

"I will _not_ be calling you for help. Goodness knows the last thing you need is a wand fight while nursing a concussion. It'll be okay, Harry."

He scowled. "Promise?"

"No, but I'll do my damnedest."

"I suppose that's the best you can do, especially where Voldemort is concerned."

_Got that straight, haven't you?_ Hermione fixed Cormac with a stare. "If he tries to leave this room, Body Bind him, and then sit on him."

Cormac nodded. "Good luck with – er, You-Know-Who."

"For heaven's sake," she replied, opening the door, "he's calling himself Voldemort. It's not a taboo yet." The boys still looked uneasy as she closed the door, but Hermione pushed it to the back of her mind. Even if he did put a taboo on his name in the first war, there would really be no point. Sure, if he wanted to catch _Dumbledore_, but Voldemort feared Dumbledore. Everybody knew it, and Voldemort knew they knew it. It was also likely why he'd waited until the Ministry had fallen to do it. With Dumbledore gone, the Ministry had been a bit of a cinch, and it was simply much easier to be a tyrant if one had government support.

When she got downstairs, much to Hermione's surprise, the pub was nearly empty. _Not good_. Of course, Voldemort could be blamed for that, but so could the fact that it was a Monday, and, logically, who would have time to stop in a pub on a Monday morning? There were a few travelers here and there, but not enough to come to Hermione's aid should she be attacked. They all looked tired and worn anyway, so she wouldn't blame them if they just turned a blind eye to a wand fight between a Muggleborn and the most powerful Dark Wizard of all time.

They say if you speak of the devil, he shall appear. And Voldemort did appear; actually, he simply stuck his head out from round a corner, grinning handsomely at Hermione's searching frown. She waited, weighing the idea of simply running back upstairs to get Harry, but then decided that the last thing Voldemort needed was satisfaction of any kind. Head up, Hermione marched towards him, making sure to look extremely put out about being there.

"I thought you'd wait eleventh hour," he said charmingly, flashing that bright smile. "Did I overestimate you again?"

Hermione scowled. "I don't know where you learnt about manners, but my parents taught me that keeping an appointment waiting is extremely rude."

Voldemort chuckled. "Muggle pride."

Hermione sniffed as she sat down across from the young Dark Lord. The stairs were in full view from here, as was the door, and she wondered if it wasn't a habit for this Dark Lord to always keep himself protected with paranoia. "All right. I'm here, let's talk."

Voldemort didn't seem in any hurry. "I'm actually rather thirsty. Mead? Or perhaps, being Muggle, you'd like something a bit less strong. A Butterbeer?"

Hermione tried not to frown suspiciously. "I'm fine, thank you."

Voldemort snorted. "I don't know where you learnt about negotiation, Granger, but it helps not to be so tetchy."

"I wouldn't have been 'so tetchy' next Sunday, but _nooo_, we _had_ to meet today, because _you_ were bored," she snarked.

Voldemort smirked. "Fine, Granger; be that way."

"I will, thanks."

He ordered his drink from Rosmerta, who tried her best not to look frightened; Hermione put it down to her own annoyed expression, and Rosmerta trying her best to rally behind it. Apparently Voldemort thought it terribly funny, as he didn't stop chuckling while she was fixing his drink. His eyes were mirthless, Hermione noticed, and then she made a quick mental note to never look him directly in the eye if she could help it. Yes, Legilimency took years to perfect, but this wasn't some average run-of-the-mill wizard she was dealing with, it was Lord Voldemort, the most powerful Dark Lord of all time.

"Honestly, Granger, you needn't look like you're trying to shine coal."

"Very eloquent of you, Riddle," she replied dryly.

He snorted. "Shall we wait until Rosmerta returns, or dive right in?"

"Let's wait," Hermione said crisply. "And I'll not count that as one of your questions."

Voldemort smirked. "Very kind of you, Muddy."

"It's not kindness," she sniped, "it's courtesy. I don't expect you to know what that is."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed. "Are you always this testy when you're outmatched?"

"But I'm not outmatched," she retorted. _Don't use rhetorical questions_. For all she knew he'd start counting now, and she'd be out of questions by the time Rosmerta returned.

Voldemort smiled. "Oh, yes. I see."

"I'm sure you do," Hermione said simply.

"I am, after all, sub-human," he pressed.

"Technically, yes," Hermione replied, "as being human encompasses more than just a beating heart, a working brain, and the ability to exist within society."

"So far I live up to all standards," said Voldemort. "I suppose you've thought of where I fall short."

"Emotion," Hermione said. "To be human, one must be capable of emotion, and since you've already murdered your family, one must assume you're not capable of that much."

Voldemort's eyebrows shot up. "Really, Muddy, you must stop providing me with debate materials. You'll only make this engagement take longer."

"Oh, it's not like you've anywhere to be."

"You forget, stupid Mudblood, I am currently an employee at Borgin and Burke's. I do have to return to Knockturn Alley at some point this week."

Hermione hummed. "I had forgotten. It's strange for you to actually have a job in this time."

Voldemort narrowed his eyes. "I had just regained a human form," he snarled. "And if things were really as terrible as Rabastan made them out to be, there would have been little to know point in my garnering a job."

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "I didn't know it was such a sensitive subject for you."

Voldemort opened his mouth to retort, but Rosmerta had returned just then, only she had two glasses instead of one. One with amber-coloured mead, and the other with simple water. Hermione frowned as Rosmerta presented the mead to Voldemort and the water to Hermione. There was no chance to ask why she'd brought it; Rosmerta scuttled back to the kitchen before Hermione had a chance to form the words. She settled for glaring at Voldemort.

He laughed into his mead. "I promise, I had nothing to do with it."

Hermione pushed the water towards him. "You'll forgive me if I don't believe you."

Voldemort mewled in his throat. "I don't think I will." He gestured to the glass. "If I drink it, will you?"

"No," Hermione deadpanned.

Voldemort threw up his hands. "It's like you don't trust me, Granger!"

"Funny you should bring that up: I don't," she said coolly.

The Dark Lord sighed. "Granger, we can't play 20 Questions if you don't believe anything I say; it would defeat the purpose of playing the game."

Hermione shrugged. "I didn't say I wouldn't believe anything you said; I simply implied that I wouldn't trust you to prove the water isn't laced."

Voldemort sipped his mead. "I suppose that paranoia is not unfounded; anti-dotes are the key to every successful poisoning. You would know that."

Hermione nodded. "And so would you. So, no, I won't drink a water I didn't ask for, and if you don't mind, I'd like to play our game."

Voldemort smiled and pushed the tumbler of water aside. "Very well, then. Ladies first."

"How very chivalrous," Hermione sneered. "Fine. When did Rabastan Lestrange come to you?"

Voldemort snorted. "_That's_ your question?"

"If it's a mistake on my part, that should benefit you, Riddle," she snapped. "When did Lestrange come to you?"

He sighed. "Fuck it, Granger, you've no manner of imagination at all." He eyed her a long moment. "About three days after your lot disappeared and left poor Abraxas in a bin."

Hermione shrugged. "He shouldn't have followed us."

"He followed you on my orders," the Dark Lord snapped.

Hermione's eyebrows shot to her hairline. "I'm surprised, Mr. Riddle. It's not like you to defend the people who follow you so adamantly."

He snorted. "Touche. All right, Miss Schoolmarm, what's your favorite novel in the world?"

Hermione was floored. "Sorry, what?"

Voldemort smiled. "Your favorite book, Granger, what is it? And because I am in fact a gentleman, I will not count that last as a second question." He sipped the mead. "Come on, then."

What was he _doing_?

_He's throwing you off your game on purpose. He knows you're determined to get answers out of him._

That wasn't what he was doing.

_He's trying to riddle out your character, find the weak points._

It was a clever way of going about it, that was certain.

_Don't answer him!_

The whole point of 20Q was to answer the questions, and they'd agreed no lies and loopholes.

_This is such a bad idea, Hermione! Harry's going to kill you!_

"Wuthering Heights," she answered briefly.

Voldemort had waited patiently for her to argue with herself, and he seemed perplexed by her choice of book. "Wuthering Heights?"

"It's a Muggle book – "

"I _know_ what it _is_, Granger, I've _read_ it."

Hermione's surprise wasn't pretend. "I'm impressed."

"It was a slow day at the orphanage." He narrowed his eyes. "Obviously I'm going out a limb, assuming a Mudblood knows about the orphanage."

Hermione smiled. "This one does."

He rolled his eyes. "Your turn, then, Muddy."

_Easy, Hermione. Don't just dive into it yet. Let him think he has a lead._ It was like a game of virtual chess, only the stakes were much higher than just a friendly win-and-lose. "How many Pureblood families do you have under your thumb at the moment, and who are they?"

Voldemort rolled his eyes. "Stop asking me the _predictable_ questions, Muddy," he moaned.

"How about you stop telling me what to do?" she retorted. "The families, Riddle?"

He huffed, and began ticking them off on his fingers. "The Malfoys, obviously, and the Lestranges. The Crabbes, the Goyles, Notts, Averys, Mulcibers, Macnairs, the Blacks, who have been an invaluable support to me, almost as much as the Malfoys; the Parkinsons, though I anticipate you expected that much – clever Muddy – and I am currently working quite hard to win over the Zabinis. They, however are based in Morocco, and they don't much like throwing in their lot with strange white men from other countries."

"I'm surprised you didn't mention the Rookwoods," said Hermione thoughtfully.

Voldemort seemed impressed. "My, my, you _do_ know it all, don't you, Muddy?" He took another swig of the mead. "I am winning them over. They are slow to respond, but I have no doubt it will be in my favor." He leaned over the table. "I'm surprised you didn't ask about the Longbottoms."

Hermione shrugged. "I know where their allegiances were in our timeline. I'm not altogether concerned."

Voldemort flopped back in his seat. "Good, because I've had a rotten time of it with them. Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors, I swear, will be the death of me."

Hermione smiled wryly. "The Ravenclaws fought against you as well."

"They're not as bad as the others," Voldemort retorted. "One can reason with the Ravenclaws. Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors won't hear of it. And the Hufflepuffs are the worst. One or two Gryffindors have been won over in the past. Hufflepuffs would sooner tear shred your face."

Hermione couldn't help the grin. "They are badgers, as I'm sure you're aware." At Voldemort's bemused frown, she said, "Even lions can sometimes be strangled by snakes. Badgers, on the other hand, tend to eat snakes for breakfast."

Voldemort, who had been ready to take a drink, let the tankard fall back onto the table. "Just because the wildlife is capable of lasting in a battle – "

"I'll have you know," interrupted Hermione, "that some of the toughest Aurors I've met were Hufflepuffs. And they did some of the worst damage possible to your ranks."

Voldemort scowled. "Oh, very well. I suppose I'll be required to take your word on that."

Hermione shrugged. "You will, actually, as I'm sure you never bothered to find out for yourself which house they were in at school."

He muttered something unintelligible into the tankard, and then eyed Hermione again, in a way she wasn't sure she liked. "What is your boggart?"

Hermione snorted. "Oh, that. Ha!" She looked down at her fingers, slightly nervous. "My boggart was being told that I'd failed all my exams."

Voldemort looked singularly unimpressed. "Your boggart was your Head of House informing you of failing all exams?" he repeated.

Hermione shrugged. "I was thirteen. I'm not sure what it would be now, after the war and everything else. Probably the snake version of you naked. At least, when I last saw you, _that's_ what _I_ thought."

Voldemort frowned. "What do you mean, 'the snake version' of me? Are you going soft in the head, Muddy?"

Hermione's eyebrows shot up. "So Rabastan didn't tell you about that little bit. Understandable. If I were going to lose my nose, I'd prefer not having to think too much about it before the fact. Maybe he was just being nice."

"What about my nose? What happens to me?"

"I believe it's my turn to ask questions."

"Muddy. . . ."

"Riddle. . . ." He glared, but relented. "Why would you court the Purebloods if you don't like any of them?"

He snorted a chuckle. "This again?"

"I'm not bitching about your questions, don't you start in on mine," she said smoothly.

He drummed his fingers on the table. "How does one succinctly state the idea that money is power? Oh." He smiled condescendingly. "That's how."

Hermione blinked.

Voldemort sighed. "I wouldn't expect you to understand, Muddy, but money _is_ everything. I told you earlier: The most effective way to rule with tyranny is to have control of the government, and one cannot control the government if one does not have money."

Hermione sighed. "No, I did understand. I had simply hoped your reasons would be deeper than that. I suppose shallow is as good as it gets for a sub-human."

Voldemort chuckled in the back of his throat, and didn't try not to look smug. "Now, then, Muddy, do tell: What happened to me, in your future?"

Hermione scratched at the table. "The first time you tried to kill Harry you lost your powers. Your body was destroyed, but your soul stayed intact. I don't know how you did it, but you managed to grow yourself another semi-human body, and by means of a spell and a potion – at least, that's what Harry says – you became. . .well, Snake-Face. That's what the Gryffindors used to call you."

Voldemort looked like he was going to be sick. "I don't understand."

Hermione snorted. "Surprise, surprise."

"No!" he snapped, slamming a fist on the table. "Explain this, Granger."

"I can't. I don't know what you did. I wasn't there. I just know that the last time I saw you – before we arrived in this time, at least – you were paler than death, had red eyes, and a snake's nose. You were an ugly bastard."

He stared her down a long minute, and then pressed his palms flat to the table. "If you are lying to me, Muddy, I will use your skin for shoes."

Hermione screwed up her face. "That seems like it would be an interesting experience." It was almost amusing how worried he was about this. "I wouldn't worry too much about it, Riddle. In spite of all your flaws, your followers come crawling back, drooling and begging for your mercy."

He mewled in disgust, and gestured to her sharply, taking a swig of mead. "Your turn, then."

Hermione stared across the table thoughtfully. She hadn't been able to plan this far ahead, so she had no idea which direction she wanted to go. Should she follow the thread of conversation, or take it down a completely different path? Would he notice?

She almost smacked herself for thinking that. Of course he would notice. This was Voldemort, not Harry, and certainly not Ron. Her best bet lay deeply ensconced in his racist mind. He was likely expecting her to continue with one tack, and never switch to another. He wouldn't anticipate mirror questions. If she played to a notion that she was trying to change his mind. . . . It was risky, but worth the shot.

"What are you going to do with this information?" she asked. "Everything I've told you; what are you planning to do with it?"

Voldemort seemed to like this question just a little bit more. He folded his arms. "I'm going to adapt."

Hermione frowned. "That's very descriptive."

"Obviously I made some mistakes the first time around. _This_ time, I'm going to adapt. I'm going to do whatever I need to do to make sure I don't make the same mistake again." He held up his hands. "Where that will lead me is difficult to say, but I know for damn certain I'm not going to be defeated by a baby. Not _again_."

"You've no idea how to go about that, though," Hermione remarked.

"I didn't say that," retorted the Dark Lord.

"You didn't have to," said Hermione, reaching across the table for his tankard. "You implied it." She took a shameless swig, reveling in the shock plastered across Lord Voldemort's handsome face. He stared at her a full thirty seconds before he spoke again.

"My goodness," he said. "You are a brazen hussy, aren't you, Muddy?"

Hermione shrugged. "One sees what one expects."

"You don't know that the mead wasn't laced, though, Muddy."

Hermione gave him a small smirk. "I _do_ know that in less than a day you have not built up enough immunity to whatever might have been in this drink. Not as much as you've had, anyway. I also know that one does not build a tolerance for potions, not even powerful wizards like you. Anti-dotes protect us from poisons, and magic protects us from sicknesses like the common cold, but it can't protect from magical elements mixed together. If it did, Veritaserum wouldn't work."

"How do you know I've not taken an anti-dote for Verataserum?" he challenged.

"You could have, but as much as you've had to drink would have cancelled out whatever immunity you may have built up in twenty-four hours."

Voldemort traced his lower lip with his forefinger, a pleased smirk dancing at the corners of his mouth. It was easy to see why Bellatrix had fallen in love with him, especially if she'd known him before his days as a travesty of a snake. "You are _so_ very clever, Muddy," he purred. He probably meant it sarcastically.

Hermione had to bite her tongue so as not to mewl. _How did he do that?_ It wasn't easy for a young man just reaching twenty to manipulate his voice, particularly to that effect. And plenty of nearly-twenty boys had tried.

_Wait just one hot minute, Hermione! This is Voldemort, not Ron. The hell is wrong with you?_

She'd been in the company of quasi-stupid boys for the past six weeks of her life?

_What, so the first sign of a sexy and intelligent male, and you turn into a mushy puppy?_

Could she help it if he made evil look so damn good? Because he did; he probably did it on purpose, but he did it, nonetheless.

_Of course he's doing it on purpose. He __wants__ something out of you! Stop playing into his hands, you overly-easy sleazebag!_

She slid the tankard back to his side of the table. "Your turn."

"Who was your first kiss?" Voldemort had obviously decided not to let up on this. His eyes were mischievous and his grin cheeky. "Do tell, Muddy."

Hermione sighed. "If you must know – and being overbearing, tyrannical megalomaniac, I know you must – he was a Quidditch player. Professional grade, as well."

Voldemort seemed duly impressed. "And here I thought you were just a bookish Mudblood. You attracted Quidditch players, did you?"

Hermione sighed. "If you're going to be juvenile about this, I can always leave."

Voldemort looked offended. "I am nothing close to juvenile."

"Then drop it and move on," Hermione said drily. "Since it's my turn, what's you're boggart?"

Voldemort looked suddenly bored. "You're asking mirror questions now?"

Hermione shrugged. "I had some left over."

The Dark Lord furrowed his brow. "I see."

Hermione smirked. "I don't think you really do, but go on then. What's your boggart?"

He seemed quite stiff suddenly. "I don't know."

"Liar."

There was a quick flash, and then it was gone; Hermione swore it was red. "It's the truth."

"Is it?"

"I've never been faced with a boggart."

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. "All right, but you still have to answer the question."

"No, I don't!" he protested.

"Yes, you do. Or, I can deduce your greatest fear for you. Either way, we'll discuss it."

He snorted inelegantly. "_You're_ going to deduce my greatest fear?"

"I'll bet you're afraid of dying, Tom," she said calmly.

The Dark Lord's face seemed drawn. "I do not fear death."

"Vol-de-mort," said Hermione slowly. "Mort: It means 'death' in lots of different languages, but given that you're not pronouncing the 't', I'd say it's French. De: That means 'of'. De-mort. Hmm. Of Death. Of Death. What _of death_? That part of your name tells us you have an obsession with it. Nobody changes their name to involve something about death if they aren't, in whatever way, fascinated by it. That leaves us with Vol. Vol: It means 'flight' in French. Roughly translated, 'Flight of death.' Why would death fear you, Voldemort? One entity only fears another when the other is a more powerful entity."

Voldemort interrupted with a chuckle. His eyes were shining with pleasure, and the grin twisting the corners of his mouth was feral. "I should stop underestimating you, Muddy."

"It would be nice," replied Hermione. "So would the answer to my question. A definitive one, preferably."

Voldemort's smile didn't fade. "Indeed, you are right," he replied. "There is your answer. Now, then, does your boyfriend appreciate how clever you are?"

Hermione hadn't been prepared for that question. "I. . .don't quite. . ."

"Come, come, Muddy," said Voldemort. "No clever woman this beautiful is single and alone."

Should she tell him about Ron? "As a matter of fact, he does. Not in the most traditional sense, but he does appreciate me for who I am."

The twisted grin seemed to grow. "But he is not like you," he murmured. "You do not want him."

Hermione felt herself grow hot with anger. "Oh, and you would know."

"You're too intellectual to be really happy with someone who else who wasn't," he said pointedly.

Hermione briefly entertained the idea of reaching across the table and wringing his neck. "You are _very_ wrong about that. We are not entirely alike, but I he does make me extraordinarily happy. And that's what I want." He opened his mouth, but Hermione cut across him. "I do believe it's my turn now."

Voldemort didn't seem in the least bit perturbed, gesturing for her to ask. "What is your favorite Muggle book?"

He laughed then, genuinely laughed. "My favorite _Muggle_ novel? Very funny, Granger."

"No, I'm serious." The quip sprang from her lips before she could stop it: "_Mein Kampf_, by Hitler?"

Voldemort's chuckle was both amused and gleeful. "I was made to read that in the orphanage. It was quite extraordinary; you should give it a look."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "I suppose that's as good an answer as I'm going to get."

"Indeed," Voldemort giggled, leaning across the table. "Tell me, Muddy, would you ever consider being with another man?"

Hermione frowned. "That's typically what happens if one relationship doesn't work, Riddle. . . ."

"No," he said. "I mean, would you cuckold him?"

Hermione had to let that thought sink in for a moment, but when it did, she calmly reached across the table, took the tankard, and emptied its contents over the young Dark Lord's head. "I think that should answer your question succinctly."

He blinked, his face the perfect picture of surprise. But the surprise melted away, and he looked at her from across the table, still hunched against the wetness. "Granger," he purred, "you are feisty."

"I wouldn't cheat on him in a million years," Hermione said fiercely. "Exactly what kind of person do you think I am?"

"I think you're a woman who knows what she wants but isn't getting it," the Dark Lord replied. Hermione wondered why he hadn't bothered to cleanse his person of the alcohol. It seemed he hardly noticed it now. "I think you _crave_ satisfaction, but the fellow whose fancy you entertain is nowhere near equipped to give it to you."

"Is that so?" Hermione replied. "And who, may I ask, do you think is equipped to satisfy me, All-Knowing Voldemort?"

He seemed satisfied that he'd backed her into a corner, and waved his wand to remove the mess staining his clothes. "Me."

"You?"

"Me."

"No."

"Oh, don't be silly, Muddy. We're very alike, you and I. The cleverest people of our age – we could rule the world."

"I'm sure that somewhere in your sick and twisted mind that's a compliment of sorts, but no."

"You don't think I could satisfy you properly?"

"I think you're a self-obsessed arsehole who doesn't know how _not_ to be a self-obsessed arsehole, and that wouldn't satisfy me at all."

Voldemort hummed. "Touché," he said wisely. "How close are you to your Harry-friend?"

"What's he got to do with anything?"

Voldemort shrugged. "We agreed any question goes, Muddy, and it must be answered. How close are you to Harry Potter?"

Hermione's jaw twitched. "Very."

"So, if I were to – in the future, that is – capture you, he would come to your rescue?"

Hermione almost smiled at the thought. "Absolutely. And so would my boyfriend."

Voldemort snorted derisively. "He would, the stupid Gryffindor."

"You're only saying that because you were in Slytherin, and it rankles that you lost."

The Dark Lord chuckled. "Not quite, my dear Mudblood, but close enough." He gestured for her to go again. "Your next question?"

Hermione tapped her chin, thoughtfully. What would put him off?

_Uh, nothing. Have you been paying attention to a damned thing?_

That was a fair point. "All right, who was _your_ first kiss?"

The sigh was frustrated and was slightly reminiscent of the sound Crooks made when he couldn't get his paw through a mouse-hole. "Not another repeat, Granger."

"Stop bitching and just answer it," she snapped. "You're acting like a little boy."

He looked at her, a devilish grin around his mouth. "But I _am_ a boy, Muddy."

"It wasn't a compliment," she said, her voice straining just a little bit. _Please let this be over soon._

He laughed. "Oh, Muddy, if I could have you for one night, I think I would be a very pleased man."

Hermione tried to pretend she hadn't heard that. "My question, _please_."

"Fine. She was a Sixth Year Slytherin, drunk out of her mind. It made her rather easy, but I _was_ in a bit of a mood, so I didn't mind."

Hermione frowned. "I take it you weren't wracked with guilt over your father's demise."

Voldemort snorted. "Goodness no. That was Fifth year; when I had Margaret I was still in Second."

Hermione shook her head. "That is somehow _not_ at all surprising."

Voldemort chuckled darkly. "I do believe it's my turn now. Tell me, Muddy, is it very annoying, being best friends with two half-witted teenage boys?"

Hermione snorted. "Two halves make a whole, and what would you know about friends?"

"Not with morons, and if I knew I wouldn't have asked."

Hermione huffed. "They're fine. They're both thick-headed, but it's to be expected. They're boys, they do the stupid things that boys do, and I bet that, at some point, you did something stupid as well."

"Hmm," Voldemort replied. "I'll be sure to remedy those mistakes."

He would, too, Hermione realized. He'd stop at nothing to write the few crucial mistakes he'd made.

_Well, then, don't let him find those things out, would you?_

"You could try," Hermione said calmly. "I rather doubt it will work."

"Tell me something more, Muddy," he said authoritatively. "Do you make it a habit to fail to unnerve people?"

Hermione blinked. "Only when I've no reason to be unnerving," she replied coolly. "But it's my turn now."

"Oh, do ask away," he said. "And for the love of all that is magical, don't be repetitive."

Hermione shrugged. "Fine. Why do you want the world so badly?"

Voldemort tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I suppose for how much fun I could have with it."

"Sorry?" He really was mad, wasn't he?

"Really, Muddy, I wouldn't expect you to understand, but it's actually quite fun watching the world burn," he said, drumming his fingers on the table. "It takes a certain stomach to appreciate it, however, and you, as a Mudblood, obviously wouldn't have that stomach."

She couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or serious, so Hermione simply nodded. "And there you _are_ right. It takes a lack of humanity to enjoy something like that."

He groaned in response, arching his back in his chair. "No, you stupid bitch, no! If I wanted to destroy the world, I wouldn't be going to such lengths to capture it. I'd simply join the masses as a mindless anarchist and wreak havoc everywhere I go." He passionately tapped his chest with his fingers. "I can make this world a better place," he whispered. "I can change it, and make it easier for wizards to inhabit a world that is rightfully theirs."

"The world wasn't just meant for wizards, Voldemort," Hermione snapped. "It's meant to be shared by every soul that inhabits it."

He huffed. "Don't be ridiculous. It's the basic survival of the fittest species to occupy the world."

"That was a theory put about by a Muggle, you know," Hermione retorted.

"Only after he put onto the theory by a wizard," the Dark Lord retorted.

"Oh," said Hermione sarcastically, "I see. So the fact that we have magic means we should simply use it to _mindlessly_ slaughter countless Muggle families. . .simply because we can?"

Voldemort leaned forward. "Tell me, Muddy, if you could have the world, would you take it?"

Hermione didn't have to think about the answer for even a moment. "No."

"No?"

"No."

"You came up with that awfully fast."

She adjusted her cloak. "Yes, well, not all of us are power-hungry megalomaniacs. I am quite content to let different peoples govern themselves as they see fit, and I shall govern myself accordingly."

Voldemort looked distinctly unimpressed, but he didn't get the chance to say anything in response. There was a sudden, almighty BANG, and Hermione felt the wall of The Three Broomsticks splinter. She fell to the side just in time, a shower of heavy oak splinters pelting her fiercely as a shell of some sort came tearing through the building.


	8. Chapter 8

**_I told you all I would update soon. I'm sorry this took so long. As per promise, I've come today to present you with two chapters, both of which I hope you enjoy._**

**_On another, probably less important note, I will be changing the rating for this from 'T' to 'M', purely at my own discretion. If that bothers someone, I do apologise, but it's mine, so get over it.  
_**

**_I would like to take this moment to thank those of you who have reviewed: romeondjuliet4-ever/SansaClegane/RadiantInnocence/Smithback/Herdcat/Catherine 16/gemini-rose16/kutsky/joeytheripper (whose name makes me smile)/Hermione Voldemort Riddle/adrianiforever. You are all wonderful human beings, thank you for your input. _********_Okay, so I'll shut up and let you get on with this. . . .because you totally stop to read A/Ns, right?  
_**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Harry Potter. I'm just gamboling in Queen Rowling's sandbox. Like a sabre-toothed bunny.  
**

**Chapter 8 **

When Hermione came to, there was a faint humming in her ears. She tried to sit up, but somebody pushed her down again. There were more obscured sounds, and she opened her eyes, blinking at the confusion around her. There was another unearthly BANG, and somebody dove on top of her skidding them both under a sheltering table. Hermione had the wherewithal to grip the edge of the would-be wooden shield, and the table fell onto its side; there was the dull sound of debris pounding their shield forcefully, and Hermione stayed crouched low so as to avoid being splintered.

It took a moment, but she suddenly realised what had happened, and who was on top of her. He seemed to have just realised it as well, if the look on Lord Voldemort's face was any indication. Hermione blinked, waiting for a third explosion. It never came, and she slowly stretched to look around the table. The room was nigh unrecognizable. She looked back to Voldemort, who seemed to be paying no mind at all to their surroundings. If anything, he looked rather enthralled with Hermione's chest. She cleared her throat and pinched him hard, and Voldemort looked at her face, a mouth twisting into a smirk.

"Attractive assets, Granger," he said.

"If you could worry less about what's under my shirt, and more about why we were nearly blown to pieces, that might be a touch more constructive," she snapped.

Voldemort chuckled. "Don't pretend not to be flattered, Muddy," he said silkily. "We both know you're pleased."

Hermione scowled. "The wall, Riddle. The wall. We were nearly blown to bits. I'd like to know why."

He shrugged. "I imagine it was a duel."

Hermione's gut said differently. She pushed the Dark Lord away, and rolled around, beginning crawling out from behind the now very beaten up table. The Dark Lord wasn't having any of it, and dropped down on top of her, pinning Hermione to the floor. He was much heavier than she'd anticipated, and it wasn't difficult for him to hamper her movements. She slapped the floorboards.

"Get off me."

"I wouldn't be crawling out there if I were you, Muddy," he said smoothly.

"It's a good thing you're not me, then, isn't it?" she snapped. "Let me go."

"I'm telling you, Muddy, it's not a good idea."

"This is why I'm in Gryffindor and you're in Save-My-Own-Arse-Slytherin," she retorted, punctuating each word with a slap or a kick, all of which were completely ineffective. "_Get off me_."

Voldemort dropped more of his weight onto her frame, and put his mouth next to her ear. "_Why don't you make me_?"

Hermione breathed deeply, and turned her head ever so slightly, the better to glare from the corner of her eye. "Fine." She jerked her head back sharply, suppressing the grim satisfaction she felt when the back of her head connected with the Dark Lord's nose. Taken unawares, he pulled away just enough for Hermione to have substantial room to momentarily decommission his windpipe. Having been thoroughly surprised, there wasn't much Tom Riddle could do in the way of stopping Hermione now. She launched to her feet and bolted for the stairs, taking them two at a time, and then hurrying down the corridor to the suite she shared with the boys. What she found on the other side of the door caused her mouth to drop open in terror:

The wall was gone, and the gaping hole that had taken over the main room downstairs had extended up to the roof. Harry and Cormac were trying to dig themselves out of the debris that covered the suite. Harry was looking murderous, and Cormac just looked confused. Hermione lurched towards them, stumbling and slipping on the rubble. Harry saw her, and gave a fierce effort to shove the roof from his waist. He scrambled to his feet, gripping Hermione's shoulders and pulling her in for a close hug.

"Are you okay?" he asked fiercely, glaring towards the hole in the wall.

"I'm fine," she replied. "Are you? What happened?"

"I'm fine," Harry bellowed, letting her go, and roughly pulling Cormac from under the remains of the roof. "And a bomb, that's what happened!"

Hermione blinked. "Harry, what are you talking about?"

"We saw them!" breathed Cormac. "They were activating some sort of Muggle contraption."

"You're sure it was a bomb?"

"Hermione, I _know_ a bomb when I see one," he retorted irritably. "They were attaching it to the Three Broomsticks wall!"

"Why?"

He threw up his hands. "Hell if I know!" he shouted. "People in red cloaks. They weren't Death Eaters, I know that much."

Hermione went to the edge of the building, peering down at the wreckage below them. "My God," she breathed. At least three other buildings had been severely damaged by the blast from the inn. Whoever had set the bombs seemed to be long gone, and people were beginning to come from all over Hogsmeade to see the damage so suddenly wrought on their quiet little town. Hermione turned back to Cormac and Harry, and was surprised to see their wands drawn and pointing at Voldemort. The Dark Lord's arms were crossed over his chest, and his mouth turned down into a scowl. There was blood leaking from the corner, and a small drip had appeared under his left nostril. Hermione hesitated, wondering just what she ought to expect from the wizard as retribution. Voldemort wasn't exactly known for playing fair (baby murdering, anyone?).

"Mr. Riddle?" she said, her tone quite innocent.

"You decked me," he said in a low voice. He sounded dangerous, but there was no movement for his wand, and Hermione didn't expect there to be when Cormac and Harry both had their wands trained on him.

"Yes," said Hermione. "Well, there were some things that needed tending. These two, to be specific."

"Whatever she did, I'm sure you deserved it," said Harry icily. Hermione reached out and put a steadying hand on his arm. The last thing they needed was some sort of misunderstanding in which the whole world fell to shit because Harry's post-traumatic stress caught up with him. This wasn't their time, these weren't their rules.

Voldemort seemed to consider Harry for the briefest of moments, and then he cracked a small smile. "So this is the great Harry Potter." He looked the Boy Who Lived up and down, looking slightly disappointed. "I must say, I'd hoped for better."

A growl escaped Harry's throat, and Hermione squeezed his arm. "Harry, don't," she said.

"Yes, Harry," said Voldemort, his voice not-so-subtly mocking. "Listen to the Mudblood. That _is_ how you survived, isn't it?"

For a moment, Hermione thought Harry would lose it, that he would actually hex Voldemort. Then he smiled slowly, and said, "Remind me again, Tom, which of us came out the winner?"

The smile faded from Voldemort's face. "Touché," he said in a low voice. "Touché." Harry's victory didn't last long. "In that case, I'll just have to steal your Mudblood away from you."

Harry began to snarl, and Hermione wrapped an arm about his waist. "Harry, don't," she said. "Don't do this. Now is not the time."

Harry seemed to be struggling to listen to her. "If you so much as _look_ at her. . . ." he said, his voice strained.

Voldemort didn't seem moved. "You'll what, Harry?" he said. "Will you Stun me? Or perhaps try a rather _ineffective_ Crucio?"

Hermione's heart thudded in her ears. _How much had Lestrange told him?_

"I will kill you," said Harry fiercely, "if it is the last thing I do."

Voldemort was becoming more and more delighted by the second. "Why don't we have it out here and now," he said, eyes glowing. "Come on, Harry."

He reached for his wand, but had apparently forgotten that Cormac was watching him as well. No sooner had his fingers touched the yew and phoenix feather, than a loud bang issued from the end of Cormac's wand, and Voldemort was thrown across the room. His torso slammed into the doorframe, and the force of the blow swung his body around like some travesty of a top. He landed in the sitting room, crashing into the small coffee table, landing upside-down on the sofa. There was a long, shattering silence, and then Hermione seized both the boys by the collar, and shoved them towards the stairs.

"Go get Neville," she hissed. "And see if you can get Dumbledore while you're at it."

"What about you?" Harry asked in alarm.

"Just trust me," she said. "If you don't hear from me in the next three hours, _do not_ come looking for me, Harry Potter. Do you understand?"

"No!"

"Please just do this for me!" she hissed. "And for goodness' sake, be careful!"

Harry stood stalk-still on the wooden stairs, giving Hermione one last searching look. Something in the green eyes seemed to click, and he nodded once, taking Cormac's arm and Disapparating on the spot. Hermione exhaled sharply, and turned to survey the wreckage that was an unconscious Voldemort. His body had toppled over, so now he was scrunched into a particularly unflattering position between the splintered table and the rather plush sofa.

_Think, Granger, think!_ she snapped at herself. _Come on! Think, you spineless, irritating twat!_

She ran to her room, skidding about, tearing open the wardrobe door. There was a small first-aid kit at the bottom, and Hermione dug it out, tearing it open to remove the small ice-pack. She conjured ice and water into the pack, snatched up the box, and began skidding her way back to the sitting room.

The coffee-table was rather heavy, but she managed to push it out of the way, and pushed the sofa over onto its back when she found she couldn't lift it at all. Voldemort remained unconscious. _Not good, not good, notgoodnotgoodnotgood!_ She checked his vitals with a spell taught her by an Auror whose name she couldn't remember; everything checked out, except that the Dark Lord was going to suffer a very nasty concussion, and she, Hermione Granger, would suffer an even worse temper when he awoke.

Hermione levitated him into a safer position, and applied the ice-pack to his head. Everything else could wait until he'd come to; he probably had a fancy healing spell he wanted to show off to her. _Whatever tickles your pickle_, she thought. After further thought on the matter (and deciding that she didn't want to be the one to actually wake him up), Hermione decided that it might be in her better interest to levitate him onto a bed. Levicorpusing him into one of the other beds, Hermione made sure to place the ice-pack in a stasis charm, positioning it on his head just so. The last thing he needed was a cracking headache due to swelling.

Shutting the door behind her, Hermione made her way into the sitting room, eyeing the remains of the wall. A simple Reparo wasn't going to fix this. . .or could it? Harry had told her how Professor Dumbledore had spelled Horace Slughorn's hideout back into proper shape. Could she _do_ that here? She paused, looking down at the mess thoughtfully. Waving her wand, Hermione felt the magic flow out the end, and tried not to dance giddily as the planks and wall panels began to realign themselves back into proper order. They crunched as they made their way back into place, shifting to allow other bits and pieces in order. There was a tinkling sound as glass made its way back into the windows, and mirrors became one whole piece again. In almost no time at all, everything was back in order.

Hermione was amazed.

Too bad they hadn't been able to do this with Hogwarts. Of course, at Hogwarts there were wards set on each individual stone, and wards added as the stones were put in place. Not to mention the fact that the damage wrought on the castle was much more extensive than what had happened here at The Three Broomsticks. Hermione moved to the window, looking out thoughtfully.

They must not have been very powerful bombs, then, to have only demolished so little. Either that, or the blast was more concentrated horizontally than it was vertically. Hermione's Muggle neighbour had showed her how to make bombs like that once. He'd also been arrested for possession of illegal substances two weeks later, so Hermione had written off the information as useless and irrelevant. Now she stood, sifting through her memories, trying to remember what it was the addict had said. She cursed her inability to remember, and turned away from the window.

The buildings of Hogsmeade were tightly packed, yes, so they would have been hit with the blast. But why wasn't there more damage? A shield, perhaps?

_It wasn't very strong, if there was one._

Why would there be a shield, though? A shield meant this wasn't just a random act of terror.

_It's an assassination._

Who was meant to die?

_Riddle, you twat. Who d'you think?_

It couldn't be Riddle, though, could it? And since when had she started calling him Riddle? No, he was Voldemort. Evil, soulless Voldemort. Was the bomb perhaps meant for someone else?

_Why would the red cloaks attach it to the side of The Three Broomsticks if their target was someone else entirely?_

That was a fair point, Hermione felt. But what did they have against Ri- _Voldemort_ that was worth endangering other lives?

_And there lies the rub. First, wouldn't it be more prudent to find who the hell they are? That might explain everything._

Yes, that probably _would_ explain everything.

Hermione made her way to the kitchenette, aimlessly putting on water for tea. _Who in 1946 wore red cloaks?_ More to the point, who in 1946 wore red cloaks and wanted Tom R- _Voldemort_ dead? What organisation were they from? Or were they independent? Hermione raked her brain for information, but nothing came up. _They could be old friends of Grindelwald._ Except that nobody knew Voldemort (ha! See?) until _much_ later in the timeline. Who would want him dead now? It would be well into the 60's and probably the 70's before anyone saw him start to wreak havoc.

She exhaled sharply, dropping heavily down into a nearby chair, thinking hard. This simply wouldn't do. Dumbledore might know, but then, he might not. Hermione rolled the idea around in her head. It was worth a shot. She took out her wand, and cast the best patronus she could. The otter swam about for a moment, looked at her sharply, awaiting instruction. "Ask Dumbledore about the cloaks," she said quietly. The otter did a little flip and twirl, and then took off through the sitting room, out the window, disappearing from view on its mission to find Harry Potter.

Hermione leaned back against the chair, closing her eyes, wishing this was all simply a very bad dream. She hated being stuck here, she hated that Tom – _Voldemort_ was still unconscious in the other room, and she hated that she had absolutely no idea about whether or not her theory on time-pockets was true. Mostly she hated the fact that her parents weren't here, and there was no source of comfort other than Harry or Neville if things blew up in her face.

The kettle whistled, and she got to her feet unsteadily, pouring the boiling water into a mug. She rubbed her temples, trying to stave off the imminent tension headache. She would have to tend to Voldemort's injuries sooner or later, but she wanted him to wake up first. Mayhap he could do it himself.

She went back into the bedroom, glancing him over once again, just to be sure. To her mingled horror and grim satisfaction, she realised that his left shoulder was completely out of place. _How could you have missed that, you daft bimbo?!_ More to the point, how could he have missed it. When Cormac had stunned him, he'd been reaching for his wand with his left hand. _Adrenaline could have blocked the pain signals._ It was a possibility, but not a definite probability. She went round to the other side, and took hold, praying that he wouldn't wake when she adjusted it. Steeling herself, Hermione twisted the joint, and tried not to vomit at the sickening _pop_ when the ball slid back into its socket. She waited, nearly breathless, for the Dark Lord to waken.

Nothing.

It seemed like he really was down for the count. Thank Merlin.

She didn't know exactly _how_ bad his temper would be when he awoke, but she was confident that she didn't want to be on the receiving end of it. Hermione snorted gracelessly: It wasn't like she was going to get much of a choice, was she?

She exited the bedroom again, angling for her cup of tea. Nothing in the world sounded quite so good right now as a cup of tea. And perhaps a bath. She was quite filthy from the explosion, and a bath would probably come in handy about now. It might also help her solve the mystery of the red-cloaked men. Hermione couldn't think of a time when she'd been able to solve such a complex problem without being somewhat relaxed.

Yes, a bath should be just the ticket.


	9. Chapter 9

**_Personally, I'm not quite pleased with this chapter. However, I've reworked it and redone bits of it enough that. . .well, you win some you lose some. Every author has that one chapter that is absolute shit. For me, this is that chapter. I hope you enjoy at least a little bit of it._  
**

**Chapter 9**

When Tom opened his eyes he was assaulted with a blinding light that immediately forced him to squeeze his eyes shut again. It took a moment, but he quickly realised that it was the sun, beginning to set, and angled perfectly to stream in through the window, onto his face. He couldn't make any sort of use of his left arm, which was throbbing painfully, and so used his right hand to yank out his wand, and the window was immediately covered. He could still see, but the light wasn't so bright that it blinded him.

Recalling what had happened, Tom shot upright in the bed – why was he in a bed? – and immediately regretted it. His head protested, and he bit back a groan. It was entirely likely that the Mudblood was still in close proximity, and it wouldn't do to show weakness in front of her. After blinking several times, Tom swung his legs over the side of the bed, noting the ice-pack in a stasis charm. He smirked. The Mudblood had tried to take care of him, had she? He winced when he moved arm. She'd not done a very satisfactory job, had she? Of course not. Stupid Mudblood.

He clutched his arm to him, as he stood, careful not to jar it with his movements. He limped to the door, his ire rising when he realized that the girl had done next to nothing to heal him. Exactly who did she think she was? Idiot girl! There were several scrapes and abrasions on his torso and his legs, and the blood was starting to show through the cloth. He slipped out of the room, pausing in the front room, and looking across to the sitting room. He couldn't help it when his eyebrows shot up. The Mudblood had completely repaired the wall of the sitting room. Not only the wall, but every cracked mirror, ever scuffed floorboard, even the cushions on the chairs had sown themselves back together.

So she hadn't been ignorant of how to heal him, Tom noted. She simply hadn't wanted to. He looked down at the repaired coffee table, seeing the box with the red cross emblazoned on the top. She expected him to heal himself. _Rubbish._ How was he supposed to do something like that with his left arm entirely out of commission? Stupid girl.

_Magic_, he heard her say tauntingly in his brain.

Another's magic typically worked best, Tom mused, as their magic wasn't draining his energy, which would only make his wounds that much worse. He looked about himself, searching for any sign of the girl. A sound from the bathroom caught his attention, and he limped towards it cautiously. It sounded like singing, but he wasn't sure. He pressed his ear to the door: Water was churning as well. She wouldn't hear if he left.

Another thought, much more devious, clipped across his brain, and Tom cast a Silencing Spell on the door. He waited, listening again. There was no break to the churning, and her singing didn't stop. Tom grinned, and turned the handle, pushing his way into the room.

Her clothes were in a pile on the floor, and a towel was neatly folded next to the sink. The water in the bath wasn't running, but it was churning something fierce. She must have charmed it, he mused. The singing didn't stop, so Tom could only assume she hadn't seen him yet. He limped forward, still quietly, and saw that Granger was leaning back against the tub, eyes closed. Her expression was completely relaxed, and the singing he'd heard in the other room happened to be her own.

"_Whether you're a brother_

_Or whether you're a mother,_

_You're stayin' alive, _

_Stayin' alive._

_Feel the city breakin' _

_And everybody shakin', _

_And we're stayin' alive, _

_Stayin' alive, _

_Ah, ha, ha, ha,_

_Stayin' alive,_

_Stayin' alive,_

_Ah, ha, ha, ha,_

_Stayin' alive."_

What in fuck's name was she singing?

"_Well now, I get low_

_And I get high,_

_And if I can't get either, _

_I really try._

_Got the wings of heaven_

_On my shoes._

_I'm a dancin' man_

_And I just can't lose._

_You know it's all right,_

_It's okay,_

_I'll live to see another day._

_We can try _

_To understand _

_The New York Times' _

_Effect on man. _

_Whether you're a brother,_

_Or whether you're a mother, _

_You're stayin' alive,_

_Stayin' alive._

_Feel the city breakin'_

_And everybody shakin', _

_And we're stayin' alive,_

_Stayin' alive. _

_Ah, ha, ha, ha, _

_Stayin' alive, _

_Stayin' alive, _

_Ah, ha, ha, ha, _

_Stayin' alive."_

That had to be the most ridiculous song he'd _ever_ heard in his life. It would only make sense that a _Mudblood_ would sing it. It would probably play on a constant loop in his head later. Remembering that he was up to no good, Tom limped forward, still cradling his arm, and looked down at the girl in the bath tub.

The churning water blocked out most of what he would otherwise have seen, but Tome could tell she was much smaller than he'd realized, and she was well fit to boot. It was a pity she was a Mudblood, he mused. She'd have been such fun in bed. He grinned. Granger still hadn't noticed him; she was caught up in her stupid song.

"Silly Mudblood," he said gleefully, and Granger's eyes shot open.

He hadn't anticipated she would use her wand.

Before he knew it, Tom had been thrown back into far wall of the bathroom. The air left his lungs, and he slumped forward onto the floor, landing rather ungracefully on his bad shoulder. The next thing he new she was out of the tub, and reaching for the towel. Unashamed, Tom glanced, pleased to see the curves uninhibited by clothing. But then the towel covered her up, and she was sealing it with a sticking charm.

There was a tingle of magic, and Tom felt himself lifted off the floor and settled against the toilet. He managed a second's look at the furious expression on Granger's face, and then she was raining blow after blow down on him, each one punctuated with a furious word in her angry tirade.

"You. Sick. And. Perverted. Son. Of. A. Bitch. Don't. EVER. Come. In. While. I. Am. In. The. Bath!"

By the time she was finished Tom was reaching for his own wand. Apparently she wasn't having any of it, because the minute his hand touched his pocket the wand was being yanked from his grasp and chucked across the room. By Merlin, he had underestimated her. She was incredibly powerful for a Mudblood. He would need to remember that in the future.

When the blows finally stopped, Tom peeked out from behind his arms. "Are you quite finished?" he said sardonically. There was tooth rattling slap across his face in reply.

"Now I am," she said primly. "Next time, don't be such a pervert."

She moved away from him, and Tom felt himself slide partially off the toilet. "Don't you think that was a bit of an over-reaction?" he said condescendingly. She had really hurt him, not that he'd ever let her know that. He silently cursed the blonde boy who'd managed to jinx him.

"No," she said shortly. "Over-reacting would have been use as many jinxes as I know on you, and believe me, that's a lot."

There was a swooshing sound, and when Tom looked again she had performed a simple switching spell, and her clothes were hugging her figure again. They were Muggle clothes, obviously, Tom concluded, but they weren't women's clothing. . .he didn't think so, at any rate. Jeans, a shirt, and a jumper were usually relegated for men's fashion, not women's. They looked quite delectable on her, though, Mudblood or not. Her feet were bare and petite, and all her toes were perfectly proportioned. The shirt and jumper flattered her figure, and the jeans showed her legs quite well. And such pretty legs, too.

"Not the usual Muggle ware, there, Muddy," he said, lowering the pitch of his voice. A rage of satisfaction streaked across his chest at the two red spots that appeared on her cheeks.

"You had this morning and the incident in Borgin and Burke's to bring that up," she said tetchily, the red spots darkening. "Now, what exactly do you want?"

She would be easily malleable. Tom smirked. "You against the door."

The blush crawled down her neck and disappeared beneath her shirt. "That's why you disturbed my bath? To be immature? What are you, twelve?"

"No," he said, pushing up from the toilet, cornering her against the doorframe. "I disturbed your bath because there was a good chance I could catch a Mudblood in the nude." It didn't seem possible that she could turn even redder, but she did. "I've never seen one before. Are you much different from Pureblooded women?"

Tom had expected another slap. He hadn't expected her knee to connect so harshly to his groin.

He buckled, unable to help the vomit that crawled up his throat. As it dislodged onto the floor, the Mudblood's knee snapped into his face. Tom could hear the bones in his nose crunch under the pressure, and blood began to slowly dribble from his nostrils. He landed on his knees, holding himself and breathing laboriously through his mouth.

He _was_ pleased.

She marched past him, and he snatched her ankle, tripping her up. "Let me go, you pompous, arrogant, reeling-ripe joithead!"

"You are feisty, Granger," he said darkly. "However. . . ." He reached with his other hand, ignoring his body's protestations, and pulled her other foot out from underneath her. She fell, but just barely managed to avoid hitting her head. It caused him considerable pain, but he clambered on top of her to pin her down. There was a struggle, yes, but Tom bit his tongue and wrestled until her arms were pinned to her sides. She looked at him, not with fear, but anticipation. She'd clearly never been in this position. "Now that I have your attention, Muddy, I've a small favour to ask of you."

"No."

"You don't even know what I was going to ask you."

"The answer's still no."

"Oh, it'll hardly kill you."

"It might."

"I need you – "

" Absolutely not.'

He growled and covered her mouth with his hand. "I need you to help me heal myself. There are certain things I can't do on my own."

Granger's eyebrows shot up. "Oufmafosmeefolelou?"

He removed his hand, rolling his eyes. "Yes, Muddy, I'm asking you to help me. There are some parts of my back that I can't reach, and I don't fancy letting them fester, not to mention," he gestured to his left arm, "this particular appendage will likely give me some grief."

She eyed him warily. "Fine."

"I'll need you to help me set the shoulder. It does ache something dreadful."

"_Fine,_" she ground out. "But you have to get off me for this to work."

His shoulder was protesting in earnest now, and his testicles felt like they'd swollen to the size of a quaffle. His nose and mouth were both covered in blood, and his back was quite sore. When he rolled off her, onto the floor, it was all he could do to not faint with the pain.

"I imagine that took quite a lot out of you, did it?" Granger said coolly.

"Shut up, Muddy."

She snorted. "I thought it might." There was a tingle of magic, and he felt himself being lifted off the floor and hovered to the sofa. Instead of dropping him, like he'd expected her to, the Mudblood lowered him gently onto the cushions. "I'll do your nose first," she said, and without warning, "Episkey."

Tom's nose felt very hot, and then very cold; he touched it gingerly, satisfied that it seemed mended. Before he could open his mouth to say more, Granger summoned the ice-pack, and caught it deftly in her hand. Satisfied that it was still cold, she dropped it onto Tom's aching groin. He inhaled sharply, glaring fit to kill. "Watch it, Mudblood," he hissed.

"Serves you right," she sneered, "sneaking into the bathroom like that."

"Are you one of those females that never lets anyone off the hook?"

"That's me," she retorted. "Deal with it, or heal yourself."

Tom considered retorting, but reasoned that he was probably not in the best position to be rude, so bit his tongue. "If you could hand over the anti-septic, please?"

Muddy shook her head, conjuring another pack like the one nestled between his legs. "Your shoulder is out of commission; you'll do nothing until I'm satisfied with your state of health." She waved her wand, and his shirt disappeared.

Tom smirked. "Rather forward of you, Muddy."

"Don't be difficult," she replied wearily. Digging some tape out of the box, she strapped the pack to his shoulder, eyeing the swelling. "This should be all right if you don't overdo it. Your arm will have to be in a strap for a couple of days. I do hope you're not left-handed."

"More's the pity," he sneered. "I am."

Muddy shrugged as if to say, "Not my problem." She dug dittany from the box as well, and Tom winced as it was applied to some of the scrapes over his torso. "Can you sit up?" she asked.

In answer Tom gripped the side of the sofa with his right hand, hauling himself up, trying not to jostle his arm. With some difficulty he wriggled his way into a sitting position. His back protested, but no way in hell was Tom letting on to a _Mudblood_ that he was in pain. She must have guessed, though; she was clever, and her movements were quick, and before he knew it, Tom's legs were being pulled around, and he was seated properly.

"We'll have to go old school on these," Muddy said, gesturing to the very deep abrasions on his chest.

"Just give me the jar, and I'll – AAAAHHHH!"

She hadn't waited before pressing a piece of gauze to his chest. It had been saturated with the anti-septic and stung like hell. Muddy looked at him innocently. "I'm sorry. You'll what?"

He glared. "Oh, very funny, Muddy. Very funny, indeed."

She shrugged. "I've no idea what you're on about, but fine."

The wounds were properly mended, Tom taking care this time to not start in alarm when the wounds were cleaned and the stinging ointment applied. He tried not to think about how badly it would likely hurt when he would remove the bandages later; adhesive had never been his friend. He watched Muddy as she sat back, eyeing her handiwork.

"Are you satisfied?" he challenged.

She was quiet a moment longer, and then shook her head. "Not quite. We've still got your arm."

"Conjure a sling and be done with it," he snapped.

"No," she replied calmly. She waved her wand, and two straps appeared. "Stand up."

"Why?"

"Just do it," she retorted.

He huffed and gave in, taking his time and adjusting the ice on his groin. Muddy waved her wand, and his shirt reappeared, buttoned and hugging his form. She reached beneath his collar, removing the ice and straightening his arm, pretending not to notice him wince. One strap went around his chest, linked and tightened until he couldn't move the top of his arm. The other went around his waist, securing at his wrist. Muddy seemed to think for a moment, and then adjusted the binds so that the buckles were behind him, on the part of his back he couldn't quite reach. Tom scowled.

"What is this?"

"This is me fixing your arm, you great louse, what do you think it is?"

"This is _not_ how one fixes an arm, Muddy," he said condescendingly.

"Actually, according to modern medicine, it is. Internal rotation is believed to be worse for you than external rotation."

"Modern medicine?" He hadn't thought of that. She would have at least fifty-plus years of scientific discovery on him. That might be something to use; it was her advantage now, but if he could sway her. . . . It would give his Death Eaters an edge.

"Indeed."

He sighed. "Very well, Muddy, I will humour you. But just this once. Now, then, be a good lass and make some tea."

She snorted, and laughed. "Make it yourself, _Dark Lord_." She turned her attention back to the box, replacing all the things she had taken out of it. Everything went into a particular place, and when she was finished the top closed with a clean snap. Tom was thrown an innocent smile, and then she made her way to her bedroom, probably to stow the box away. When she returned he had taken to trying to adjust the straps around his torso. "What are you doing, you stupid man?"

"Don't start with me, girl," he snarled, "and I'm trying to arrange these so I can actually reach them. What does it look like I'm doing?"

"It looks like you're trying to hurt yourself."

"Where's my bloody wand?" he snapped irritably, marching past her and scanning the floor.

"In the corner," she retorted. "And for goodness' sake, leave them where they are!"

"I need to be able to take them on and off, you filthy Mudblood," he bit out, stalking over to the part of the room she had indicated. He had to restore some sort of order, else she'd be taking all sorts of liberties with him. To his surprise, the Mudblood quip had no effect.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she said. "Fine. Do what you want. Don't bother using _magic_ or anything; that would make you a sensible wizard. If you hurt yourself, it's on your head anyway. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to finish my bath."

"They're uncomfortable _now,_"Tom growled, quickly becoming annoyed with her impertinence. "How long were you in there before?"

"Not long enough," she answered vaguely. "The door's over there; feel free to go away."

He had retrieved his wand now, and turned just in time to see the door snap shut; a clever retort died on his tongue. There was a hum of magic, and Tom smiled: She had put up wards to keep him out of her way. She _was_ a clever Mudblood. She'd underestimated him, though.

_Just as you did her?_

'Shut up,' he thought savagely. Pointing his wand at the door, he cast a spell to test the strength of her wards. They were quite weak, which meant she anticipated his leaving. She must think he was fed up with her, or had no more use for her. "Au contraire, silly Mudblood," he whispered softly. She was in luck, though. He cast Tempus, and nearly erupted with fury at the time it read. Unfortunately for him, the day had grown old, and he was required to be back at Borgin and Burke's come morning. Violently cursing the inconvenience of his schedule, Tom conjured a piece of paper and a self-inking quill. He scribbled five simple words, and placed it on the coffee table in point of focus. Turning on his heal, he Apparated out into the Hogsmeade street, directly in front of Madam Puddifoot's. Rollo and Rudolph Lestrange choked on their tea, and Abraxas Malfoy stood up sharply. Several tables had been placed out front, most likely in celebration of the Scotland spring.

"My Lord!" they all exclaimed at once, but Tom waived them off, sneering.

"Oh, yes, you're all concerned _now_," he said dryly. "Tell me, Abraxas, exactly where were you when the walls of the Three Broomsticks were blown to smithereens?"

"I was following the men who placed the bombs, My Lord." He was trying valiantly to cover the terror in his voice.

Tom had no doubt that all three of them wouldn't mind seeing him dead in one way or another. "Was it a _useful_ venture, Abraxas?"

The blonde shuddered. "No, my Lord. They disappeared."

"Disappeared," Tom repeated softly. "They simply vanished?"

"I did my best to follow them, My lord, but – "

"Your best was hardly good enough to pass you in Potions class," Tom snapped venomously. "Really, Abraxas, you should know better than to allot yourself the task of _following_ anyone." He turned his glare on the Lestrange twins. "And where were _you_?"

"We were in Dervish and Banges," said Rollo, "and the wall went in."

"It was the wall directly facing the inn," supplied Rudolph, rather unnecessarily. "We think there may have been wards cast to keep the blast concentrated on the – "

" – ground floors, yes, of course it would," said Tom, brushing off the remark. "It was an assassination attempt, not a random act of terror, you foolish boy." _But by whom?_ In a bid to keep his temper in check, he turned from them and faced the High Street.

"Do you know – "

"Don't finish that question, Lestrange," he said, the warning clear in his voice. The other fellow shut up immediately, and Tom thanked his lucky stars. He had to think. He'd heard somebody say something about red cloaks, but he wasn't sure who. The only organization he knew of whose supporters wore red cloaks was Grindelwald's army. They, however, had been out of commission for a little over a year. That wasn't to say there weren't still some of them running amok unchecked, but they couldn't _possibly_ know of Tom's agenda. His profile was too low. "No one we know, then," he said, more to himself than to his bootlickers.

"My Lord?"

"They know us," he said, ignoring Malfoy, "but we don't know them. Oh, this _will_ be fun." Perhaps he could enlist the Mudblood's help? There was an attractive thought. It was a plan he would have to form very carefully, or it could blow up in his face, but, yes, she would be an invaluable addition. Clever Mudbloods were hard to come by, and having regular access to someone who could tell her arse from her head would be quite a treat. "Go home, boys," he said quietly. "And see to Rowle and the others. I have business to attend to." That business, of course, being his job at Borgin and Burke's.

"What of the Mudblood and her friends, my Lord?" said Rudolph.

"Leave them to me," Tom replied. "Don't bother posting lookouts; the Mudblood would dispatch them within the day." He looked back at his men. "_I_, and I alone, will be the one to deal with the Mudblood. Am I clear on this?"

They saluted him, and Tom nodded. One by one the young men Disapparated from the street until Tom was completely on his own. He took one last look up at the Mudblood's suite, and a plan to lure her into his clutches began to formulate in his mind. "Yes, Muddy," he said. "You will give in, and you will _not_ regret it." Then, turning in place, Tom Disapparated back into Diagon Alley.

Back in The Three Broomsticks, Hermione was coming out of the bathroom, still half-expecting to see the Dark Lord perched on some piece of furniture, glaring daggers as he iced his testicles. To her surprise and relief, he was gone. She made doubly sure, exploring the suite in a bathrobe; there was no sign of Lord Voldemort.

As she made her way back into the main room, a piece of paper on the coffee table caught her eye. She paused to pick it up. The words on the paper caused her heart to sink, and Hermione let out a small groan. She'd hoped this was over.

_I will see you again._


	10. Chapter 10

**_Hey, so here's Chapter 10. . . .as opposed to Chapter 50. No, I don't actually have that many written out yet, but I'm sure, at the rate this story goes, it'll get there. _**

**_This isn't the LONGEST chapter I've ever written, but I think it's the longest in this fic so far. . .again, I'm not really inclined to check. You'll have to let me know.  
_**

**_Anywho, read, review, all that jazz. And I would like to make it abundantly clear that I don't own Harry Potter. Otherwise, I'd be in college, living in Wales, and not having to worry about how exactly I'm going to pay the bills.  
_**

**Chapter 10**

It wasn't the _most_ frightening thing Hermione had ever found in her life, but it ranked in the top ten. Was she frightened of Lord Voldemort? No, not in particular. Was she frightened of what he could do? Oh, yes. Absolutely. Anyone who claimed not to be was either a fool or a liar, and Hermione liked to think she wasn't either of those. He was coming back because he wasn't finished with her. It made her feel like crying. Why couldn't this be over? This was _such_ an inconvenient time for it too.

She sank down onto the sofa, examining the small missive. His handwriting slanted to the left, so he hadn't been lying about being averse to emotions. There weren't any indentations on the back of the paper, so his purposes were either mechanical, or he was bluffing with the soft-tipped pen. The ink was even, but being a Muggle-hater, he probably used a self-inking pen. It was a single sentence, but the line was solid. The _y_ and _g_ were both endowed with generous looping, so he was likely very physically fit, but the expansion of the words on the paper stated his need to work alone. The words had been written quickly, indicating alertness, perception, rapid-thought, and flexibility, all trademarks of Slytherin. The letters were distinctive, though; he knew what he was about, and he knew what he was letting on.

Hermione sighed and dropped the paper back on the coffee table. This was the last thing she needed. Voldemort knew she was clever, and he'd probably anticipated that she would analyze the writing. So much more was said in those five words, in that handwriting, than had been said all day. As much as she'd desperately hoped to stay below his radar, as much as she'd tried to find a quick and relatively safe way home for them, it was apparently not destined to be.

Hermione picked up her wand, trying to think of a happy memory; it was eluding her. _Come on, twat,_ she thought angrily. _Happy memory, here we go._ She envisioned herself, cosied with Ron under a blanket at the burrow. They were perched on the sofa, holding hands tightly, relishing each other's warmth. A great feeling of longing burst in Hermione's chest, and the otter swam out her wand with ease. It shot out the window, streaming in the general direction of Hogwarts School. Harry and the boys would probably come back as soon as they got the message, likely with wands at the ready, just in case.

She took the moment to change into something much more suited to the lateness of the hour, and meandered back to the kitchen, realizing she had never finished that cup of tea. A heating spell did the trick, and Hermione perched herself on the sill of the main room window, keeping an eye on the streets below her. The last thing she wanted was another surprise. Knowing her luck, she'd get one anyway.

The tea finished, Hermione leaned her head against the glass, watching as the streets darkened. It was a lovely time of day, even if there was no snow to be had, and the tea had relaxed her significantly. She felt her eyes getting droopy just about the time an enormous silver stag came bounding into the living room. Hermione eyed it, half-dazed, half-worried.

"We spoke to Dumbledore," said Harry's voice. "He thinks there's a very good possibility that the red cloaks are friends of Grindelwald's, but he says he isn't for certain. There's always the possibility that they're from an entirely separate organization. Grindelwald doesn't know about the Death Eaters yet; how could he? Dumbledore's putting out feelers anyway. He said he'd let on if there was anything that came back concerning us. We won't be back tonight. Will you be safe?"

The stag faded, and Hermione, still half-asleep, considered _not_ replying, and just falling to sleep as quickly as she could. The day had been packed with more adrenaline than she had become used to in the past weeks, and it had left her very sleepy. As it was, she raised her wand, and cast her patronus, the otter swimming back the way the stag had come, to tell Harry that all was, indeed, well, and she could likely survive the night without a bodyguard. Not in those words, of course. Harry would probably come barrelling back if she'd used any form of exaggeration.

The message sent, Hermione got up from the window, tiredly placing her cup on the counter of the kitchenette. She was beyond exhausted, and her bed sounded like the absolutely best place in the world. She slouched into the bedroom, nearly tripping on her feet. The door was closed and locked, but Hermione didn't bother putting up a ward. Voldemort and his men were gone, and there would be no point. In the back of her mind she heard Moody shout, "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" but she didn't bother acknowledging it. She would be fine.

Hermione crawled between the sheets, and before her head even hit the pillow, the room, the window, the stars shining in the crisp night sky, the entire world had blacked out, and she was dreaming.

What she dreamed, Hermione couldn't remember when she woke. She found that she didn't particularly care either. This was _not_ her room, and the window that looked down onto the bleak street below was _not_ Hogsmeade. For a moment that seemed to take up all of eternity, Hermione just stared, open-mouthed and horrified at her surroundings.

The room was actually a small study-room, and the bed was actually just a mattress. There was a floor length window that peeked down at what she knew, from experience, to be Brixton. She frowned, wondering if the window was charmed that way. She looked back to the room, eyeing it: It was standard fair for council housing, so whoever was keeping her was likely not in a high-income bracket. Bookshelves lined the walls, and Hermione found them, upon closer inspection, to be entirely magically oriented, focusing heavily on the Dark Arts, Potions, and Divination. A pair of men's boots, quite muddied, stood next to the doorway, and the writing desk was littered with pieces of correspondence, and envelopes that looked like bills. There was a quill and ink on the desk, but no photographs.

Hermione, aware that she didn't have her wand, was about to leap up and begin to tear the place apart looking for it, when she heard whistling and froze. The door opened slowly, and there stood a very handsome, if slightly dishevelled, Lord Voldemort, and he looked rather pleased with himself.

"Good morning, Muddy."

"What could I _possibly_ have done to deserve this?" she snapped.

"You know," he said thoughtfully, "most people demand their wand." He sipped the coffee, smirking. "It's quite a relief that you'll not be so stupid."

Hermione's brain was working much faster now that it was fully awake; something about being around Voldemort made her more and more alert. "Whose house-elf drugged the tea while I was in the bath?"

"_Very good_, Muddy!" enthused the Dark Lord, his eyes shining. "And I borrowed Abraxas'. He didn't mind."

"You didn't answer my other question," Hermione retorted. "Is that because you haven't made up your mind yet?"

Voldemort quirked an eyebrow. "_I_ know why you're here, Muddy," he said. "Of course _I_ know why you're here."

Hermione sighed, deciding that she would have play his game for the time being. It might put him in a better mood, and, more to the point, it would probably keep her alive. "You're waiting for me to work it out for myself, to see how clever I _really_ am," she supplied.

"Oh, you are good, Muddy," Voldemort replied approvingly. "Yes, indeed. Come now, then, let's hear what _brilliant_ theories your Mudblood mind concocted."

Hermione stared at him, weighing her decisions. He had gone to the trouble of having her kidnapped, but she doubted it was because of her bright and cheery disposition, or Lord Voldemort's fondness for 20 Questions. "You've either got a death-wish," she said, "or you're trying to provoke Harry into coming after you. And you've gone to the trouble of taking my wand, but I'm not bound and gagged, nor am I being held under the Cruciatus, which means you don't really care about interrogating me; if I had to guess, I'd venture to say you're trying to test the closeness of our group, or, perhaps, demoralize Harry." She thought that last bit over. "I don't think this is a particularly good tactic, if that's your plan. Harry is Gryffindor through and through. He'll take the bait, and he'll come for me."

Voldemort's smirk wasn't sinister, but Hermione didn't like it all the same. "You sound quite confident in his affections."

Hermione shrugged. "So, how wrong am I?"

They stared each other down for another long moment, and then Voldemort conceded, coming fully into the room and resting casually against the writing desk. "With your surprising Mudblood acuity, you've managed to hit the nail exactly on the head. Well done, Muddy, I didn't know you had it in you."

"I'm not in a particularly good mood this morning, Riddle," she said dryly, "so you'll have to excuse me if I ask you to refrain from being a hollow narcissist for at least an hour."

Voldemort laughed as he raised the coffee to his lips. It was a beautiful laugh, and Hermione wondered how it was that every good-looking man turned out to be some sort of brute with control issues.

"I suppose you're expecting me to honour that request?"

"It'd be nice."

He shrugged. "That's just rotten luck, then, isn't it?"

"So you're going to continue the arsehole act?"

He laughed again. "If that is what you choose to call it, you may. However, yes, I do intend to keep up my behaviour."

"Would there be any conducive point to my asking why you've removed the straps from your arm?"

"I didn't like them."

"You weren't supposed to _like_ them; that's not the point. They're supposed to help your shoulder to mend."

"I took a potion," he said carelessly.

Hermione huffed. "Someday, and probably the day Hell freezes over, you're going to see and understand that you can't always rely on a potion to fix a problem."

"Nonsense," he said. "Besides, the shoulder is fine. It isn't my business to appease you just because your pride was damaged by your lack of wit."

"Oh," Hermione sneered. "Really, _My Lord_, I must beg your pardon for not having access to every potion that might satisfy your whimsy."

Voldemort smirked. "You do now. Behind you, the cabinet."

"What about it?"

"The green phial inside."

"Again, what about it?"

"Fetch it me, will you?"

Hermione snorted. "You can get your own damn potion."

"I could Imperio you," he suggested.

Hermione nodded. "You could, yes. But in the time it would take to cast Imperio and get me to bend to your will, you could have just walked across this considerably small room and dug it out of the cabinet yourself. Really, Riddle, let's be efficient with our time, shall we?"

He chuckled. "You've really no idea just how powerful I am, do you?" he said quietly. To Hermione's complete shock and surprise, he did push away from the writing desk and stalk to the cabinet behind her. She crawled out of the way, watching as he plucked it from a waiting row. "Now, then, Muddy, if you'll get up, please?"

"Where?"

"Well, _here_ I imagine. Unless you fancy doing so by the bookcase?"

"Where are we going?" she clarified uneasily.

"Oh, that," he said. "To the front room."

"What's in the front room?"

He shrugged. "Furniture, the radio, a nice view of the motorway, but not much else, I'm afraid."

Hermione mewled in irritation. "_Why_ are we going into the front room?"

Voldemort's eyes glinted approvingly. "I have to leave for the day, and I don't want to risk you getting away, or nosying through my things. The only option is to tie you up. So, we can do it out in the front room, and you can choose your position, or we can do it here, and you can remain curled into a ball for the next eight hours. It's up to you, really."

Hermione glowered, but she knew he was right. Harry wouldn't know right away who had taken her, and he wouldn't guess that Riddle lived in _Muggle Brixton_ of all places. He'd likely begin by interviewing the people in Hogsmeade, and Merlin only knew what sort of information they'd have that they'd be willing to share.

Having weighed the options, Hermione stood and walked stiffly out the door, turning left and into the front room. It was a dingy, tiny flat, but it was what Voldemort needed, and he had never struck Hermione as a superficial personality; he was pragmatic to a fault, except in boasting his triumphs. The Horcruxes were proof enough of that.

The floor looked like it had only been cleaned a handful of times, and the walls were a sickly sort of white, with intermittent stains here and there. Most of them were dark, and if Hermione had to guess what it was, she would say blood. She didn't want to know how those stains had gotten there. What she could see of the kitchen was white as well, with a small stove, an icebox, a very small sink, and a few white washed cupboards and drawers. There was a wall half-heartedly separating it from the main room, which had been given a small, navy blue sofa and a radio. The walls were empty save for the stains, and there was a stack of newspapers on the floor next to the radio, but that was it. A vast majority of his possessions were probably in that study.

She turned to eye the young Dark Lord. "How do you want me on the sofa?"

"You may lie down, or you may sit. The choice is yours," he replied.

Hermione considered it for a moment, and then plopped down on the sofa, adjusting her position just so. "There. Tie me up, if you must."

Voldemort seemed disappointed at her uncharacteristic submission, but he waved his wand, and ropes bound themselves painfully tightly around Hermione's body. She wriggled her hands, trying to ensure there was still circulation, and wiggled her toes as well. Satisfied that she couldn't move an inch, she looked back up at the Dark Lord. "Now what?"

He huffed. "Now, I leave, and you aren't making this any fun at all."

"How much fun are you supposed to have tying up a woman?" said Hermione incredulously.

"More than this," he snapped. "You could at least put up a fight."

"Nah," said Hermione. "If you wanted a fight, you should have made sure the house elf didn't drug me so much. Honestly, I'm still having trouble believing this isn't just some very bizarre, terrible dream."

Voldemort laughed, but it didn't reach his eyes, and he didn't seem particularly pleased. "It's not, I assure you. I suppose you'd like to listen to the radio while I'm gone?"

"No," said Hermione dully. "Where _are_ you going, anyway?"

"Work," he said casually.

"You need a potion to go to work?"

"Oh, no, silly thing. The potion is for later."

"What are you doing later?"

"That's none of your business."

"Does it involve me, or any of my friends?"

Voldemort made a face. "I should certainly hope not," he shuddered. "Honestly, how appealing could that possibly be?"

She wasn't sure she believed a word he was saying – and the bound party always maintains the right to doubt the free party, even if questions cannot be asked about the latter's plans and movements. "So, I'll just stay here and meditate, shall I?"

"If you must," said Voldemort, picking up his coat and turning to the door. "I wouldn't bother calling for help, though, Muddy. No one will be able to hear you, and there is an anti-Muggle Charm on this place. I put it up myself."

"Does that mean that whatever Muggle tries to help me will die a slow and painful death?" she said flatly.

He shrugged into his jacket, completely unconcerned. "Most likely. Nothing I can do about that, though."

"You could take down the charm."

He sighed. "Muddy, don't pretend to be dense. It doesn't suit you."

"Oh, and you'd know all about what suits me, wouldn't you?" she sneered.

"Well, seeing that you're a Mudblood, clever though you are, one can't possibly expect you to be able to discern these things for yourself. Somebody's got to." His face didn't look anywhere near to joking.

"You can't seriously be that stupid," she hissed.

"You're going to tell me that your Muggle parents imparted you with a brain? Muggles don't have them, and if they do, their function doesn't extend beyond involuntary muscle movements."

Hermione couldn't _believe_ this man had made it to the top of the Wizarding World. "You know," she said, trying her damnedest to not let on just how furious and frustrated she was, "I was told you were exceptionally brilliant, and sometimes I believe it. But then you go and say things like that, and I can't help but wonder if everyone else is just exceptionally dim-witted, or the level of education these past few decades has been hopelessly abysmal."

Voldemort laughed again, and this time Hermione thought it was real. "Oh, Muddy. You've so much to learn about the world."

"I think I got more than my fair share of lessons, thanks," she said. "I have your mindless, ignorant bigotry to thank for that."

Voldemort was tugging on a scarf. "Yes, well, as _fascinating_ a conversation as this would turn out to be, I really do have to be going. Feel free to talk to yourself, or perhaps the radio. I'm told Muggles do that sort of thing."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "No, they don't."

"My grandfather did."

"Chances are your grandfather wasn't speaking _to_ the broadcaster, he was simply venting an opinion. It's human nature. If _you_ were human, or if you'd paid attention in school, you'd know that."

Voldemort made a sound that Hermione couldn't quite interpret, but then the door was opening. "I will deal with your silliness later, Mudblood," he declared. "For now, I'm off. Remember, there will be no point in shouting; no one will hear you past my wards."

Hermione was about to retort something quite clever, but the door clicked sharply shut behind him, and now she was completely alone. Her thoughts were company, but even Hermione found herself quite boring after a while. There had to be _something_ to occupy her interest, though _what_ exactly that would end up being she couldn't be sure. She could try to hop about the flat in search of her wand, but who was to say that Riddle hadn't put a sticking charm on her?

_Who's to say he did?_

She thought about it, weighing the options in her head. It would be vastly more interesting than just lying here staring at the ceiling all day.

_You could sing to yourself. It's not as though anyone will hear you._

No. She was not singing to an empty flat, Silencing Charm or not.

_You __could__ turn on the radio. He offered to do that for you. Hell, some of these songs you might even know._

That didn't seem very likely, given that this was 1946, and Hermione's experience with jazz, swing, and all other genres of the day was severely limited. That was also negating the fact that Voldemort had probably tuned in to wizarding stations; just because he lived in Brixton _amongst_ Muggles didn't mean he was one of them. In all likelihood, he was probably studying his prey in their natural habitat, learning their ways of communication before he went in for the kill.

_The point is, you're completely incapable of keeping up with wizarding history._

"No," said Hermione out loud, "the point is, I haven't bothered to keep abreast of wizarding _music_, as it's never been important."

_No time like the present._

But Hermione didn't move. She lay on the sofa and stared at the white ceiling, forcing her mind back to the problem of the red cloaks. Maybe if she went through her mental filing cabinets again, she'd find something worth while. It was a long shot, but she began to sift.

A common coloured cloak was usually a symbol of something. Regular cloaks often came in darker, muted colours. When a pack of wizards went around wearing the same colour, it meant they belonged to an organization. There were only two wizards, Harry had said, but they had done a bunk as soon as their bombs had been set, which meant that there were more of them somewhere. And even if there weren't (which Hermione didn't find to be likely) the fact that they were together meant they stood for something. That was the standard profile, anyway; according to the profile, what those wizards stood for was probably something incredibly political.

Hermione chewed on her lip, lost in deep thought.

The last known gang, or organization to utilize red cloaks were Grindelwald's men; before them, it had been the Ross-Sparrow Crew of 1864. Before that, it had been the Cookman Riders in the 1790s, and before that were the Secret Wizarding Guard of King Charles II back in the 1670s. Each one was effectively void of guilt, as they were at least eighty years early.

_All right. The obvious choice is Grindelwald. Now the question is, how did he find out about Voldemort? Voldemort's rise isn't supposed to begin until '56. _

Hermione wriggled, suddenly irritated. She wanted to pace. She always thought better when she paced. But she couldn't, because she'd been tied up and placed on the sofa. After a fair bit of wiggling and stretching, Hermione managed to turn over enough to look at the clock on the wall behind her: A half-hour had passed. Hardly a half-hour, actually.

It took a minute, but Hermione eventually managed to work herself into a sitting position. Swinging her legs over the side of the couch, she stood, hopping uncertainly as she tried to keep her balance. She looked about, waiting for some sign that there was a spell or a ward that would push her back into place.

Nothing came.

Shrugging, she hopped a foot or so to her right, and waited.

Still nothing.

Hermione looked about Lord Voldemort's small flat: Either he was underestimating her again, or he was expecting her to over-think it. Probably the latter, if nothing had come zooming out of nowhere to batter her back into submission.

_Fine. Let's just find that wand, shall we?_

She began hopping about the flat, looking for some sign of her wand. Nothing was obvious, so perhaps he'd hidden it. Hermione hopped into the kitchen, looking around. If he'd hidden it, that meant he anticipated she'd try to find some way of moving about the house. So he wasn't underestimating her, and he anticipated she wouldn't think too hard about what was keeping her in place other than a bit of enchanted rope.

He _wanted_ her to look for it. He _wanted_ her to prove she was clever. He probably expected her to be out of her bonds by the time he came home.

"Well," she said to the empty rooms, "I would just _hate_ to disappoint him. Now then, if I were Lord Voldemort, _where would I hide a wand?_" The answer came almost immediately.

_In my bedroom._

Well, that was great, and everything, but where was his bedroom? She hopped about the flat again, trying not to feel like she'd been stuck in an asylum. The walls were barren and white, and while that was admirably pragmatic of him, Hermione didn't like it. It felt desolate and empty.

She hopped back towards the study, trying not to imagine how ridiculous she looked. Her toes caught something, and Hermione teetered for a moment before falling on her face in a rather unflattering and scrunched up position. She pulled her head off the hard wooden floor, and made a sound of indignation. Honestly, this was ridiculous. Too tired to put in the effort of standing up again, Hermione pushed herself forward, wriggling a bit like an inch-worm she'd once studied on her window as a child.

Hermione did find a door next to the study, but much to her consternation, the handle was too high up for her bound hand to reach, even if she had been standing. Pulling herself into a sitting position against the door, Hermione began to seriously question the point of this endeavour. Voldemort would be irritated when he got home and found that she hadn't managed to untie herself, and she would be lying if she said that the thought of irritating Voldemort didn't make her smile. On the other hand, if she had her wand, she could be out of here in no time at all. She'd have to dismantle his wards, but she'd be able to make a run for it. Hell, she might even stop by Borgin and Burke's to say goodbye. Maybe curse him for good measure.

Newly determined, and bolstered by the idea of cursing Voldemort, Hermione wiggled her way into standing. It took a few more minutes, but she managed to work the bit of her arm that she could into the slot between the doorjamb and the doorknob. She hadn't expected him to make it easy for her, and so wasn't surprised that the door was locked. If she could practice wandless magic, she'd have it open in no time. Of course, she thought, if she were capable of practicing wandless magic, she'd have been free a solid hour ago and this wouldn't be an issue.

As it was, she was simply going to have to knock down the door. That could take a while, depending on whether or not he used another spell to hold the wood together. It didn't seem too far-fetched an idea. This _was_ Lord Voldemort.

Hermione slid down the door, back into the seated position, and rolled over so she could lie on her back. She'd thought about charging the door, but given that all she had at her disposal was hopping power, it didn't strike her as a thoroughly effective idea. Unconcerned about the noise level, she began banging away at the door, using all the force she could muster. Being barefoot, however, wasn't exactly doing her any favours. After a good five minutes with no results, Hermione rolled back onto her knees, and hopped up. This blunt force thing was about as effective as a pillow.

Looking around, and trying her best not to growl in frustration, Hermione hopped back to the kitchen. With any luck he'd have a knife lying around somewhere. She began pulling open drawers, surprised that they hadn't been warded shut. Upon finding a silver knife likely used for potions, Hermione hopped back to the room, carrying the blade between her teeth (she'd had to pick it up with her mouth, as the drawer, like the doorknob, was too high for her pinned hands. On the journey back to his room, however, an idea seized Hermione, and she dropped the knife to the floor. Dropping down next to it, Hermione managed to somehow pick up the blade with her bound fingers. Twisting the knife about in her hands, she touched the blade to the magical ropes binding her.

As soon as the blade made contact, the ropes withered and fell away.

Hermione crowed with laughter, feeling victorious and faintly apprehensive about what sort of challenges lay in wait beyond Riddle's door.

_Voldemort, you twit._

Once she was free, Hermione went back to study the bedroom door, still convinced her wand was hidden within its confines. Taking a chance, she rushed the door, putting all her force and weight behind her right foot. The door caved immediately, and Hermione, out of habit, paused, looking about worriedly for any sign that someone had noticed. Reminding herself that no one had, likely due to his wards, she proceeded into the room.

It was tastefully decorated, but still quite Spartan. The bedding was a muted green, and the sheets and pillow were white. The bureaus had all been stained ebony, and the walls were white as well. There was a cork-board on the wall to the left of the bed, covered in pieces of paper and small newspaper clippings, all of them somehow connected to Hogwarts, be it Dumbledore or the Defence Against the Dark Arts post. Hermione turned, eyeing everything warily, an envelope on the pillow catching her eye. Her name was printed in his handwriting.

Huffing irritably, Hermione picked it up and tore it open, unwilling to read the missive, but understanding that it was likely important.

_Well done, Muddy. _

_This letter is charmed to disappear at exactly 1:00 this afternoon. I had thought it would take you until then to break into the bedroom, but apparently I was quite wrong – depending, of course, on how close it is to 1:00. _

_I don't know if you're intelligent enough to tell – though I will go out on a limb and assume you're aware – that your wand isn't in this room. It's in another, though I won't say which._

_I will return briefly around 3:00, and if you still haven't found it by then, I'm afraid I'll have to tie you up, and you'll be forced to start over. We wouldn't want that. _

_I expect to see you floundering when I return. Do prove me wrong. _

_~ V_

Hermione made a sound of angry weariness, and sank down onto the bed. It had been perfectly made, and deciding that she was intent on annoying the Dark Lord as much as she could, Hermione leapt up, and began jumping up and down on the mattress. It wasn't so much fun – although, it was that, admittedly – as it was releasing the pent up frustration.

Her anger spent, Hermione dropped down onto the bed, pulling out Voldemort's note. Should she believe him, or should she not?

She decided not. Crawling off the bed, Hermione surveyed his impeccably organized room once again. She could start with the bureaus, but he might have those warded, just like he didn't have the kitchen warded. The bedroom was much more privy to sensitive information than the kitchen.

Surprisingly, there was no impediment to her search. The drawers came open easily, and she was able to rifle through them. His pants were all standard white boxers, about nine pairs; his vests were white as well, and he had four of those; nine pairs of socks were in the next drawer down, along with eleven different ties; six were regimented, five were solid. Each one carried some variation of grey or green, the only other colours being those of the stripes. In the bottom drawer of the bureau there was one pair of Oxfords, with room for a second pair, likely the Derbies he'd been wearing that morning.

There was no sign of her wand anywhere. Changing tactics, she went to what she had to assume was the closet. Cracking it open, Hermione wasn't in the least bit surprised to find shirts and trousers hung and pressed in neat order. There were only four pairs of each, all shirts except the silver one were white; two pairs of trousers were charcoal grey, and the two were black; two dinner jackets, one dark green, the other black; and two waistcoats, cream and charcoal. A black umbrella stood in the corner, and on the closet shelf were perched a Regent and a Gatsby. Extra hangers were stacked in a small basket on the floor of the closet.

Hermione stood back, her eyebrow cocked. Reaching up, she felt along the closet shelf carefully. Nothing. She checked the jackets, the shirts, and the basket on the floor, but nothing came up. She was about to give up, when a sudden idea registered, and Hermione reached for the umbrella. Undoing the strap on the umbrella, she let it loosen, and then peeked into the folds, not going so far as to actually open it.

There, nestled safely amongst the gingham folds, was a thin piece of vinewood. Hermione snatched it out triumphantly, more than a little thrilled to have it back in her hands. A thought made her take pause.

What if it was a trick? What if it was a duplicate put there to dupe her?

No, it wasn't. Hermione knew it. This was _her_ wand. She could feel it. As though to prove it to herself, she pointed it at the door, casting a Reparo. The wooden splinters collected themselves again, and the door adjusted itself so that it was slightly ajar.

Hermione let out a giddy, delighted laugh. She hadn't been this happy to hold her wand since she was eleven years old, and even that memory couldn't compare to this one. She now had her weapon, and if the Dark Lord returned before she'd managed to break out of his flat, she was going to be able to put up a hell of a fight.

She bolted out of the bedroom, making her way to the front door. It would be foolish to think he hadn't warded her in, and Hermione found that she was right. The door was shut fast, and even her Alohamora couldn't shake it. Glancing at the time (it was close to noon; had it really taken her two hours?), Hermione tapped her chin, thinking. Knowing Voldemort, he wouldn't have just cast the normal security wards. There would all sorts of nasty punishments for anyone who tried to breach his door.

Deciding to go cautiously, Hermione cast a testing spell. There were so many wards on the door, it lit up like a Christmas tree. The first one she picked out was the anti-Muggle charm; she'd take that one down last. The next she identified was the Protego Maxima and the Protego Horribilis. Those were easy work. There was a locking charm that, she knew, had its roots in the Dark Arts, and she tackled that next. It was the strongest of them all, and Hermione was sweating and had killed a good twenty minutes of her time when she'd finished it. And there were still sixty wards to go.

Her energy depleted, Hermione dropped to the floor, blinking tiredly. Why did he have to be so paranoid?

_For all you know, he's not actually paranoid; he's just doing this to piss you off. You are the closest thing to a challenge he's had in Merlin knows how long. _

That wasn't an arrogant idea at all, she mused. She looked at the door again, the wards still shining under the influence of her spell. There was a Maiming jinx applied, and it came down with quite the difficulty, and there was an alarum spell that would, Hermione knew, sound like a klaxon if a threat came too near the door. She left that one in place as well. An Exviscer curse was soundly applied to the doorframe, and it took a good ten minutes to peel it down. There was an odd Sticking Spell (_why the hell would he need a Sticking Spell?_), and two-scores of jinxes, most of which she couldn't quite identify. Their colour suggested they were Dark Arts, so Hermione worked carefully.

It was nearly fifteen minutes to one when Hermione stopped again; her magic wasn't thanking her for this pressure, and it would probably take her two or three days to get back to normal, and that was _if_ she was lucky enough to Apparate out of here.

_On the bright side, you've only got ten wards left._

Hermione wasn't sure how that was a bright side, but she would take whatever silver linings she could find at this point. Maybe she could just cast a really powerful Bombarda, and be done with it.

_Oh, yes, because depleting your energy reserves even more is really a great idea. No wonder they called you the brightest witch of your age._

Hermione took a deep breath, and raised her wand again. It was a complex spell, what she had in mind, but given that the ten wards remaining were quite weak, it ought to work.

_You really ought to rethink this, Granger._

Incanting, Hermione twisted her wand ever so slightly, and the wards began peeling away like old paint, fading as they detached from the door.

Seven to go, and her arm was beginning to ache.

_Maybe you should just stop and do it singularly._

Five to go. . . .

_Seriously, Granger, you can take apart his wards, but none of it will do you any good if you make yourself faint._

Three. . . .

_Are you sure this is a good idea?_

Two, and her head felt like it was about to explode.

_Granger, you'll never be able to Apparate like this._

One, and her wand was beginning to smoke just a bit at the end. . . .

There was a loud bang, a popping sound, and some force crashed down on Hermione's shoulders, dropping on her like a tonne of bricks. Her knees hit the floor, and she retched, now beginning to really regret her steely determination.

_You didn't even bother to check if he'd warded the windows._

Her head swimming, Hermione climbed to her feet. If she could just get to the door, she'd be fine.

_Bet you he knew this would happen. That's why he put up so many of them. You know, even curse-breakers don't tackle these things without a team. You twat._

The door creaked open, and Hermione stumbled down the stairs, her bare feet catching a splinter. She had no way of hiding her wand, so if anyone in Brixton happened to see her, she'd have no way explaining herself. Maybe a patronus. . . . She fired one off, just managing to stumble out of the building without catching her head on the steps. Somehow managing to cross the street without being run down, Hermione sheltered herself in an alleyway, sliding down next to some very full and very smelly bins. Her breathing ragged, she closed her eyes, trying to stave off another wave of sickness.

She tried to imagine that she wasn't sitting in a dirty alleyway, that she wasn't hiding from the Dark Lord, and that she wasn't stuck in 1946, completely alone, magic depleted, and energy reserves completely gone. Looking at her wand, she had enough wherewithal to cast _one_ more spell, and then her eyes rolled into the back of her head.

It felt like only seconds had passed when a pair of strong arms pulled her away from the wall, gently brushing the grime off her face and hands. A muttered spell, and Hermione felt her headache begin to recede, and her tensed muscles relax. Another spell was muttered, and she was warm all over. It made her even drowsier. The arms went under her knees and around her back, clutching her to a strong chest; as she was jostled, her body ached, and Hermione couldn't hold back the small whimper of pain; she _really_ shouldn't have put her magic through that ordeal. Someone shushed her, drawing the hair back from her face, whispering that it would all be okay, she'd be fine. There was hardly any more movement as the arms stood up. Hermione managed to open her eyes just a crack, but everything was blurry, even the black hair and green eyes so close to hers. Satisfied that she was safe, Hermione let blackness claim her once again.

**_Let's be honest, you enjoyed that. _  
**

**_I thought this would be a good time to put into writing Tom's more anal characteristics. He's not Lucius Malfoy, remember, or Abraxas, or Parkinson, or any of the other wealthy Purebloods. He's Tom, he's Voldemort; he has a goal, and he doesn't really have time for superfluous things like peacock's or walking sticks with wands tucked discretely away. It just seemed appropriate.  
_**

**_Also, anyone who actually lives in the U.K., more specifically in London, even more specifically in Brixton, probably knows how wrong I am about where Tom lives and what it's like. I've never been, and Google is my best friend, so obviously the details are probably very skewed. Please forgive the obviously moronic American.  
_**


	11. Chapter 11

**_Yes, yes, I know it's been a month since I last posted. In my defense, first there were holidays, and then I got sick. This was removed from my list of immediate priorities. _  
**

**_On that note, I must say I feel like a complete troll, and when you read the below you'll understand why. That being said, I've tried to make this as un-choppy as possible, but I'm not sure how that went. Here's an idea: Review and let me know!  
_**

**_Seriously.  
_**

**_Review.  
_**

**_Kind of an author's food, here. I'll even give you special permission to flame at my lateness, but just this once.  
_**

**Chapter 11**

When Hermione awoke again, feeling very groggy, moody, and _hungry_, she found herself in a completely darkened room, no light coming in from any windows, and no sound except that of her own breathing. She was more than a little disorientated, and waking in the dark wasn't doing her senses any favours, and to make matters that much worse, her clothes were gone. _Cormac, I will kill you a thousand different kinds of dead for this._ She crawled out of her bed gingerly, her body still aching from magical over-exertion, and made her way to the door. Her foot caught on the bedpost, and she swore violently. If only she could see. . . .

At that moment, the bedroom door opened, and Hermione saw a dim light drifting towards her. It was being held by a pair of very masculine hands; hands with fingers that looked eerily like spiders in what was clearly candlelight.

"What happened?" she asked. "And what the hell have you guys done with my clothes."

"Good of you to rejoin the living, Muddy. You ought to know, your clothes have been burned. Apparently they began falling apart at the seams when you broke out of the house."

_No. It couldn't be. . . ._

But Hermione knew that it was. Anyone else would have addressed her as 'Hermione'.

"Damn," she whispered.

The light was cupped just so, and Hermione was just able to make out the victorious smirk etching Tom Riddle's mouth. "I must say, I'm rather impressed."

She might have heard him wrong, but Hermione didn't bother asking, preferring to sink down onto the floor, supporting herself against the bed. "Why?" she murmured. "Why me? Why are you doing this?" She just wanted to go _home_; home to Ron, and Ginny, and Mrs. Weasley, and her mum and dad, and her dad's hugs, and really hot cup of tea spiked with whisky.

"I'm not the one who didn't manage to get away, Muddy," he said. "Although, I must tell you just how _impressed_ I was to come home and find those wards thoroughly dismantled. Truly astounding. Though why you didn't just use the window I'll never know."

_Told you the windows were a better idea._

"You knew I would fail?" Hermione shuddered; she couldn't help it. She was cold, hungry, weak, and her magic still hadn't collected itself yet.

"I expected it, but I would hardly say you _failed_, Muddy."

Why was he being so generous. "What d'you mean? I'm still here, aren't I? I'd call that a fail."

"_You broke my wards, stupid girl! My wards!"_

"Okay. . . .?" This was probably the most enthusiastic he'd ever been, not counting his frustration at seeing Bellatrix die and Harry come back to life. "It wasn't that big a deal, really."

Riddle snorted inelegantly. "I had no idea fainting was a hobby of yours, Muddy."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Okay, fine. I broke your wards, we're all excited. What have you done with my wand, and why did you burn my clothes?"

"Your wand is in my office, and I burned your clothes because I couldn't be bothered to mend them."

Hermione tried not to be surprised. "You could have used a spell."

"I could," he acknowledged, "but it was much quicker work, burning them, and really, you've rather a nice body for a Mudblood."

Hermione hadn't realized it was possible for her to be any more embarrassed. "Have you got an extra sheet?" she said icily. "A blanket, a jacket, _anything that might cover me up_."

"None that I'm giving you," he replied with a smirk.

"It's _freezing_!"

"As I've been made aware."

Hermione scowled. "Where are your clothes?"

"Drying."

"You don't have anything extra to put on?" She hoped he would get the hint.

"My castle, my rules, Muddy," he said, his voice ever more amused. "In any case, I don't know if you noticed when you went through my clothes, but I don't just _have_ pyjamas to put on at your leisure."

"Pants!" Hermione screeched. "You have plenty of those!"

Voldemort shrugged again. "I never wear them unless I'm at work."

She stared at him. "Are you an arse naturally, or do you have to work at it?"

"I think it comes naturally," he retorted smoothly. "It's never been very difficult."

Hermione looked about the room, rubbing the top of her chest vigorously, trying to stave off the cold. Seizing on an idea, she reached for the sheets and yanked them back, crawling beneath them and curling up on herself. Voldemort didn't look anywhere close to pleased.

"That is _my_ bed."

"You didn't seem to have a problem when you brought me back," she challenged. "What's changed?"

"My ability to molest you in your sleep," he replied glibly.

Hermione had to work not to cringe. "You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I? Aren't I supposed to be pure evil as far as you're concerned? That's what Rabastan has been telling me."

"I'm a Muggle-born," Hermione pointed out. "You don't like people like me, and you certainly never allowed your followers to _mate_ with us."

Voldemort chuckled as though she had just told him a mildly humorous joke. "Molesting is _hardly_ mating, dear Muddy. In any case, you are right: I wouldn't. I've far more attractive women at my disposal. Now, be a good girl and remove yourself."

"You're not using it, are you?" Hermione retorted.

"Regardless, that is _my_ bed, Muddy."

"Get me something to keep warm, and I will," she bartered.

"It is _not_ that cold."

"Ha! Says the Heir of Slytherin. Does cold-bloodedness run in Parseltongue families?"

Voldemort didn't reply. He merely stalked away to another room, and returned a few moments later bearing a blanket. "Here," he said sharply, throwing it at her. "Now move."

Hermione felt the thin material in her hands. "This won't do at all, Riddle," she said, speaking as though to a child. "I need it to keep me _warm_."

"Exactly how _warm_ d'you need to be, Muddy?" he said incredulously.

Hermione spread the blanket over the top of his comforter. "Warmer than this, that's for damn sure."

Voldemort crossed his arms. "That's all I've got."

"Are you a wizard or not?" Hermione snapped. "_Transfigure something_."

He said nothing. He simply stared at her through the darkness.

"Fine," she retorted. "I'll stay here, and _you_ can be cold somewhere else." And she rolled over so she wouldn't have to see him, curling up in a shuddering ball.

There was a long and shattering silence before Hermione heard two bare feet pad over to the bed. The covers were lifted, and before she could even begin to protest, a very naked Lord Voldemort had slipped beneath the sheets next to her, and had pulled her close.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I would make you take the sofa, but you'd probably bitch endlessly about it."

"And you think I can't complain about being next to you in _bed_?"

"I don't think you'll complain as much," he said smoothly. It was like he didn't notice she was pinned under his arms, completely naked and vulnerable.

"Are you willing to bet on that?" Hermione was trying her damnedest not to imagine the look on Ron's face were he to see her now. Just the image of him made her gut twist with desperation. _Don't think about him. Don't think about him, you'll only give him fodder to hurt you.  
_

"Granger," he said, his voice commanding, "do not make me cast a Silencing Spell. I will, you know."

She huffed. "I have no doubt. . .arsehole." He responded by pinching her. "Ow!"

"Don't call me an arsehole."

"I do whatever the fuck I want." There was another twisting feeling in her gut: Ron had taught her that phrase.

_No, don't think about it. Don't think about him. Don't let – _

"Who is Ron?"

Hermione's stomach twisted on itself. "No one."

"Oh, Muddy, you are a terrible liar."

"He's no one important."

"Liar again."

"No one you need concern yourself with."

"I do think that is the greatest lie of them all."

Hermione huffed angrily. "Then there's nothing I can do for you, is there?"

Riddle chuckled. "Oh, Muddy Granger, how you amuse me."

Hermione dearly wished she could tell him how _not_ amused she was, but her wand was in his office, and if he had any kind of brain, he had probably warded her away from it.

_Damn_.

"No more swearing, Muddy."

Hermione felt something snap inside her head, and she reached around, pelting the young Dark Lord with sundry slaps and blows. "Get – out – of – my – head – damn – you – or – I'll – do – more – than – tear – a – part – your – wards." Each syllable was punctuated with a slap, and Hermione kept at until, in a jerking motion to get away from her, Voldemort toppled off the bed and onto the floor with a very loud thud. Hermione suppressed a snort; he was going to be pissed off enough for having been slapped around. There was no call to make it worse. Chest heaving, she peered over the side of the bed at him. Now that her eyes had become accustomed to the dark she could just barely make out a tousled head of hair, and dark scowl.

"That was very rude, Muddy."

"Says the man snooping around inside my head."

"I can't help it if you can't keep your thoughts to yourself."

"You could not Legilimize me."

He chuckled, but there was no amusement in his voice. "Where's the fun in that?"

And then he was off the floor so suddenly Hermione barely had time to register that it was happening. In a flash, his wand appeared in his hand, and Hermione was bound tightly, following with a muffled, "oomph" onto the bed. She twisted and wriggled, but only a little. What little energy she had had been depleted when she took her rage out on the Dark Wizard standing over her.

"Now, then. If you'll be so kind as to apologize for that little lapse in judgement, we shall be quite well off."

"What lapse in judgement?" said Hermione innocently. "Honestly, Riddle, I'm beginning to worry about you." Even in her weakened state she could see that her usual tactics weren't going to hold up under the forceful typhoon that was Lord Voldemort. Re-evaluation was needed. Perhaps after a bit of sleep. But she couldn't compromise. Not now. If she gave an inch now, he'd push her back a whole yard. She had to stay firm. . .and she had to stay awake.

There was a long-suffering sigh, and then Voldemort picked up the thin blanket he had proffered earlier. Tapping it twice, the blanket became a duvet. He dropped it over Hermione, his motions apparently disgusted. "There. Now, then, remove yourself from my bed."

"Exactly how am I supposed to do that?" she snarked.

He got the hint, and the ropes were lifted. "There. Now move."

"To where?"

"The sitting room, I imagine."

"I think I'd prefer your office."

"Well you can't have my office. It's mine."

"It has my wand."

"Oh, what d'you want your wand for?"

"I want it so I can leave."

Voldemort snorted. "Out of the question."

"Why?"

The snort turned into an all out laugh. "Why? Muddy, need I remind you that your magic is in less than perfect condition? The simplest of spells would have you exhausted. Not to mention the fact that at this moment you have absolutely _no_ clothes _whatsoever_, and, no, you may not have the blanket to transfigure. It is _mine_."

Hermione huffed and rolled her eyes. "Possessive little snake, aren't we, Tom?" she said under her breath, well aware that he could hear her every word. "Fine. I can go nude. What's a Disillusionment Charm amongst Muggles?"

"And damage your magic before you've had a chance to recover it?" Voldemort made a sound in the back of his throat. "Why must you ignore logic? Why do you insist on taking the fun out of everything, Muddy? How _did_ Potter and Weasley stand you?"

"Weasley?" Hermione repeated, her heart dropping into the pits of her stomach.

There was a shattering silence, and then Voldemort chuckled. "_Muddy_, how much do you think Rabastan kept from me?" When Hermione didn't answer, he laughed again. "Oh, you thought you had me fooled, is that it?"

"No," she replied a little too quickly.

"Now, _now_, Muddy," said Voldemort, his tone similar to the one typically reserved for very naughty children. "We've talked about this lying thing. It is _most_ inappropriate." The ropes reappeared, latching themselves around her body, and Hermione winced as she felt what had to be small hooks latch onto her skin. Voldemort flung the duvet off her dramatically, and pushed her until she fell of the side of the bed with a loud THUNK. "You can stay there until you've learnt to not lie when I ask you a question."

"Oh, go suck an egg," she snapped. A gag appeared and tied itself around her mouth.

"And that will stay put until you have learnt some etiquette. Does that seem fair?"

It bloody well did not seem fair, but he knew that. Even so, with her mouth out of commission, and her mind teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, Hermione settled for closing her eyes and meditating. It would help her relax, it would help her sleep, and it might give her an idea what to do with the not-so-mild annoyance sleeping in the bed above her. She could find a way out of this in the morning.

If he didn't kill her in her sleep.

No, he was probably waiting for Harry's top to burst, and then he would kill her. Probably about the same time he killed Harry. Depending, of course, on what hair-brained idea the boys hatched up to get her back. There was no doubt that Harry had come up with a suspect, and given that his hunches were usually right, Cormac and Neville would probably go along with it. And likely without telling Dumbledore, which meant that if something went wrong, they were all royally screwed, as the only wizard capable of defeating Voldemort in this time-line had absolutely no idea what they were all doing. And because Murphy's Cursed Law was a general given in any plan Harry made, whatever _could_ go wrong, _would_ go wrong, effects disproportionate to the actions.

She groaned, something she was sure Voldemort heard. 'Harry, whatever you're about to do, please don't do it.'

_Oh, yes, just broadcast that to the world, Granger._

What was Voldemort reading into that? Nothing, the last time she checked.

_And giving him ideas is beneficial to you?_

On the other hand, Dumbledore might have noticed she was gone.

_Because that's proven to be a helpful alliance._

Actually, it had. They wouldn't have covered half the ground they'd managed without his help.

_Probably would have covered more._

'Would you shut it?' she shouted into the recesses of her mind. 'Fuck's sake, it's hard enough to find a way out of this mess without the eternal pessimist droning on in the background.'

Now, then.

There was no crawling out of these ropes, not with hooks in her, so escaping tonight was a moot point. What of tomorrow? Would there be a tomorrow that didn't involve nudity or spined ropes. And then there were the possible wards on his office door to consider.

There was always the possibility that he hadn't warded the door. He probably wasn't anticipating she'd try the door again. Of course, she wasn't planning to do anything tonight, she was so tired. But what would happen to her come morning. She couldn't very well lay here all night without a plan.

Oh, yes, she damn well could. Spined ropes or not, Hermione Granger was thoroughly exhausted, and that was the last thought to register in her mind before she fell into blackness again.

* * *

Upon waking, Hermione noticed three things: Her ropes were gone, she was in a very warm bed, and she had been clothed. Opening her eyes, Hermione looked about nervously, unsure exactly as to what was happening. Nothing, apparently. She was still in Voldemort's bedroom, light making its way through the sad window above his bed. She blinked, twisting this way and that, not altogether surprised when she found she had freedom of movement. Looking down, she took stock of the summer dress she'd been clothed in. It was very much on par for 1946, and quite a lovely print to boot.

She'd had no idea Lord Voldemort had taste in _women's_ clothing.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed and touching down to the floor, Hermione got up slowly, cautiously. Her magic might not be completely intact yet, depending, of course, on how long she'd been sleeping. She tried the door, and was mildly surprised when it opened and she was admitted entrance into the hallway. Something smelled good.

Hermione lingered in the doorway, thinking, weighing her options. This wasn't a dream, she knew that; this was all real.

_He's changed tactics._

The question was, why?

_Upping the ante?_

Playing with her head?

_Maybe he's just bored of this; he does complain about your lack of intrigue quite a lot, doesn't he?_

Whatever it was, she'd find out sooner or later, wouldn't she? And standing uncertainly in the doorway to his bedroom wasn't going to keep it off forever. Hermione started down the hall, pausing to feel the thrum of the wards over the office door. They were warm, and the magic emanating from them. . .was alluring. She couldn't quite mark how, but there it was.

She pinched herself. Hard.

'You have Ron, you closeted floozy. Ron who is everything good and annoying, and now you're attracted to his _magic_?'

_Get a hold on yourself, Granger._

And then she stepped into the sitting room. _He_ was in the kitchen, surprisingly enough, flipping pieces of bacon and stirring the scrambled eggs. He didn't notice her for several more minutes, giving Hermione time to analyze him. He moved with a sort of serpentine grace that fit his character perfectly, his high brow furrowed in concentration. His long fingers were nimble with the whisk, and impatient with the bacon. He hovered without seeming a helicopter, and twisted and turned with the steadiness of a seasoned ballet dancer.

_Odd sort of analogy, but perhaps it is fitting, Granger._

And then he saw her and his face broke into a bright smile that didn't touch his eyes. "Good of you to wake up, Muddy."

"How long was I asleep?"

"About three days."

Holy Merlin. . . . "Where did you get this?" She pointed to the dress.

"I bought it in a Muggle shoppe."

"You spent money in a _Muggle_ establishment?"

"You sound shocked."

"How many people did you kill?"

He rolled his eyes. "I didn't kill _anyone_, silly Mudblood."

"Why would you spend money on me?"

He shrugged. "Call it an investment."

"An investment?"

"What I said."

"Investment in what?"

"You."

"Me."

"Indeed."

"Why?"

"Because I am _terribly_ bored, and you will make things interesting."

He was going to lure out Harry. "I'll not help you."

"Help me?"

"Find Harry."

Voldemort stared at her a long moment, befuddled, and then a look of understanding crossed his face. "Oh, never fear. I don't want him anymore."

"What?"

"Well, I won't lie," he said, whisking the eggs again. "If I do see him, I'll probably try to kill him, but at the moment, Muddy, you are my new primary interest."

"I find that deeply unflattering."

"You shouldn't. It's not every day a Mudblood can catch my attention. Not to this degree, anyway."

_Not good, Granger. Not good._

"What do you want?"

"To keep my wits sharp."

"That's not very informative."

Voldemort sighed. "Muddy, will there ever come a time when you _stop_ asking questions?"

"Probably not. What do you want from me?"

Voldemort didn't reply, plucking the bacon from the pan, and covering two small plates with eggs. There wasn't much, as he was on rations like the rest of Britain, but Hermione wasn't going to complain if one of those plates was meant for her. Retrieving forks from a drawer, Voldemort pushed a plate across the counter towards Hermione. She could only stare, mouth watering, stomach howling.

"Eat."

"Why?"

"You're hungry."

Did she need another reason? "Answer my question first."

It seemed that Lord Voldemort was in an exceedingly good mood today, because he didn't reprimand her for being demanding. In fact, he seemed quite pleased. "I want you to help keep my wits sharp."

"Yes, you've said, but that's still not an answer. What are you playing at?"

The green eyes sparked. "Playing at?" he repeated softly. "An interesting choice of words, Muddy, grammatically incorrect as they may be."

"_What do you want from me?_"

"I want to play a little game."


	12. Chapter 12

**_I know it's been three weeks, but life has a very bad habit of getting in the way when it will prove the least bit helpful. Hopefully this particular chapter is interesting enough to assuage your feelings of remorse at clicking the 'Follow' button. _  
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**_Thank you, everyone who reviewed. I appreciate your feedback. If I could, perhaps, make one small request? Please, don't just rave about this. Tell me what you think I can do to make it better. I do take opinions into consideration, even if what I want ends up in the final draft. Who the hell knows? Your ideas might just change my mind. Thanks!  
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**_Unnecessary disclaimer: I do not own 'Harry' (if I did, I'd be at university), and I am not J.K. Rowling (see former parenthetical).  
_**

* * *

**Chapter 12**

What he proposed wasn't a game, and Hermione knew it; she knew he knew it, too. Maybe he was holding out on her, making her wait before unveiling his true objective. Maybe there was something more to it, and he wanted to see her operate within a certain set of confines before the real challenges came to the fore. Maybe he thought it was game, probably because he was holding all the cards; 'game' implied 'entertainment', and there was no way in hell Hermione would find this entertaining. It was virtual suicide, though on whose part she had yet to determine. Harry wouldn't be interested, McLaggen would probably be terrified, and Neville would staunchly stand by Harry. Hermione couldn't blame them, but the position was precarious. Voldemort had made that much clear when he'd sent her on her way, and Hermione didn't feel particularly inclined to test his mettle on the issue. She would have to fight cunning with cunning, she knew that now. But how to go about it?

"_There will be no consulting Dumbledore on the issue either," Voldemort had said patronisingly._

"_That's a bit unfair, isn't it?" Hermione had challenged. _

"_I'm sure I don't know what you mean." _

"_You want us to lead you on a chase, yet we're not allowed to ask for help?"_

_Voldemort had chuckled. "No, Muddy. I want you to lead me on a chase. I'm allowing you to ask your friends for help." _

"_Dumbledore is my friend." _

"_Dumbledore was never your friend, stupid Mudblood," the Dark Lord sneered. "He was your professor, perhaps a mentor, but never your friend. Dumbledore is out, Muddy." _

_Anyone else would have been brushed aside, but Lord Voldemort wasn't anyone else. He'd shown her what would happen if she didn't stick to his guidelines. _

_He led her to his office, opening the door and gesturing for her to step inside. Much to Hermione's horror – and not very great surprise – there were three very frightened-looking people bound and gagged in a corner, two men and one woman. Voldemort didn't speak right away, apparently preferring to let Hermione figure it out on her own. _

"_Why?" she'd said, her voice hard. _

"_Because I'm bored," he replied simply. "I take it you know what's going to happen." _

"_If we deviate from your guidelines, they'll die." There was a knot twisting in her stomach. She was stuck between a rock and a psychopath, and there was no way out of it. For a brief moment an image of a disgusted and angry Ron reared its ugly head, and Hermione felt sick. _

"_Very good, Muddy," Voldemort had replied, his tone quite pleased. "And you'll know you've deviated when you find a dead body on top of your tent come morning." _

"_And what happens after our three strikes?" _

"_Your three strikes?" He had sounded amused. "I suppose I'll just go find more Muggles to kill." _

_Hermione nearly did sick up then, but managed to keep what little food she'd had down. "How long?" _

"_You've twenty-four hours to leave Hogsmeade, and then I'll kill the first one." _

Hermione took a steadying breath. _"And what happens when you grow bored of this game?" _

_He'd shrugged. "I suppose we'll play something else." _

"_And you'll be choosing again." _

_A smirk. "Oh, well, if you insist, of course I shall."_

_Hermione had given him the dirtiest look she could muster. "Fine. You win. I'll play." _

_Voldemort's laugh had been strangled. "Oh, Muddy, this bit wasn't about winning or losing. This was simply a test of your vulnerability." He leaned forward ever so slightly. "The vulnerable ones are such fun, but I do hope," and here a look of disappointed expectation glinted in his eye, "you won't let your heart rule your head too much. A challenge for any Gryffindor, surely, but do be clever about this, Muddy Granger." _

_Hermione leant towards him, her face now set with determination. "Give me my wand and we'll settle this now," she'd growled. _

_Voldemort had chuckled gleefully. "Oh no, my dear, I think not."_

"_You'll have to give it to me when I go," she'd snapped. "Just hand it over now." _

"_What, so you can hex me when my back is turned?" _

"_I'm a Gryffindor, remember. We fight fair." _

"_Yes, and that's why you always lose. No, no, you'll not be getting your wand." _

"_What d'you mean, I won't be getting my wand?" _

"_Well, that's a stipulation, you see. You'll be doing no magic at all." _

_Hermione had only been able to stare with her mouth wide open. _

_Voldemort rolled his eyes. "You may be a Mudblood, but you are not a codfish. Close your mouth, stupid girl." _

_Hermione couldn't respond; her mind was working a mile a minute, trying to work out a way around the no magic rule. "That's definitely not fair!" _

"_My game, my rules. Unless you'd like a Muggle dead now." He pointed his wand, and Hermione had rushed to stand in front of it, palms outstretched. _

"_No, no! Wait, just wait, okay! Why can't I do magic?"_

"_You interfere far too much when you have magic at your disposal," he'd said loftily. "At any rate, it should make this more fun. For all of us."_

_Hermione tried to think of a way around it, but she couldn't. Nothing was coming, and that made her feel very scared. Why wouldn't her brain work? "Fine," she'd said. "Fine. No magic, I'll lead you on your wild chase. Is there anywhere I'm not allowed to go?" _

_He'd had to think this over. "Hogwarts," he said thoughtfully. _

_That effectively eliminated any safe haven they might have had. "Agreed. There's just one little problem." _

"_What's that?" _

"_When do we get to go home?" _

"_Home?" _

"_Back to our time. We've been trying to find a way back since we got here – "_

"_No." _

"_Sorry?" _

"_You shan't be going home." _

"_Why shouldn't we?" _

_He pointed the wand at the second Muggle, and Hermione moved with it. "I think you get the idea." _

_She took a shuddering breath. "Fine. We'll play." _

_The smile was broad and insincere. "Excellent." He'd held out a hand. "Shall we?" _

And now here she was, on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, virtually no protection, unsure of where they were to go, what they were going to do, or how they would even survive. Her first steps were hesitant and unsure, but then an idea came to her, and she walked a little more boldly. She wasn't sure how Voldemort was going to track them, or who would be following them, but she was pretty sure there were a few guidelines he hadn't expressly given them, and there were some loopholes in the ones he had.

_Thinking like a Slytherin, are we?_

To beat a Slytherin in a game of wits, one had to think like a Slytherin, as they probably wouldn't think like anyone else. Lord Voldemort was a Slytherin to the core, and he wouldn't be beaten easily.

_What do you know about thinking like a Slytherin? You were nearly put into Ravenclaw, for fuck's sakes! You were almost a hat-stall!_

Hermione wasn't sure what she knew about Slytherins, but she knew she'd forgotten how Voldemort played his games. Hell, she'd forgotten how frightening he could be, and he wasn't snake-face yet, either.

_Whatever happened to fear of a name?_

Hermione stumbled a bit. There was a thought. Step one was to know thy enemy, and never underestimate him. That would be foolish, particularly where Lord Voldemort was concerned. However, just because she didn't underestimate him didn't particularly mean she had to be afraid of him. In fact, she had to think of herself as his equal.

_How do you go about making _Lord Voldemort _your equal?_

Call him by his name.

_Don't be stupid, Granger._

Except that in thinking of him as 'Tom Riddle' he became infinitely less frightening; as Tom Riddle he'd been downgraded from 'intimidating' to simply 'annoying'. He was a problem she could fix. It would take lots of work, and very careful calculation, as it was imperative she not underestimate him, but she could fix him.

It was a long walk back to The Three Broomsticks, but Hermione appreciated the chance to get her plans in order. It would take a while to convince Harry that this was their only option, although she was pretty sure he'd go for it once she told him what was at stake. Chasing after their party was one thing; killing countless Muggles for every perceived infraction was completely different. Perhaps Voldemort was _trying_ to make Harry angry. Harry would drop everything and charge head on, horns lowered at any time. Hermione couldn't let him. She felt pretty sure that Vol – _Riddle_ was looking for an excuse to kill Muggles.

_He's the Dark Lord. He doesn't need any excuse other than, "I'm bored, killing is fun."_

But if killing Muggles was his usual tactic to alleviate the dull pangs of boredom, why would he be chasing her?

"_You will make things interesting."_ Hadn't he said that? _"I am bored, and you will make things interesting." _

Just how interesting did he want things to get?

He seemed to have forgotten that Hermione was raised by Muggles, and therefore not allowed to do magic outside Hogwarts during her school years. She knew how to get by without magic, and her cleverness was not limited to magic alone. She knew perfectly well how to exist without it. What she didn't know was how long she could defend herself in a fight without it. Hermione hadn't been built for physical defence; sure, she could manage. She wasn't sure how, as Martial Arts weren't her thing, but her father had been a fan of boxing, and he'd made sure to show his daughter a thing or two.

Shaking her head, Hermione refocused her mind.

_Plan. Have a bloody plan._

She would get to the inn; she would have a chat with the boys. They would plan their route, and they would plan the pairs. They would plan to divert, and they would plan when to separate and when to meet again. And _where_ to separate and meet again. It would probably be best if Neville and Harry went together. . . . No, it would have to be Neville and Cormac. Neville what to look for, and Cormac would detract attention if he could find it within himself not to do something stupid for five minutes together. Harry and Hermione would have to team up. That would be the most logical thing to do, not to mention the fact that Harry would probably have a conniption if Cormac were to go with Hermione. It couldn't be Hermione and Neville, not with what she had in mind.

_That's all good and well, but how are you going to convince them of this?_

She had no idea.

The climb up the outer stairs was long and burdensome, and Hermione was almost afraid of the welcome she would receive. . .or perhaps she wouldn't. What if they were gone, out looking for her? She shook her head. They couldn't be. They just couldn't be. This whole ordeal was already a mess, if they were gone –

She knocked on the door, and waited.

Nothing.

She knocked again.

Still nothing.

Trying not think the worst, Hermione reached up and turned the handle. The door opened to her touch, and Hermione stepped inside. It was still warm, which meant they hadn't been gone long, but gone they most certainly were. The rooms were empty, the bathroom was a veritable mess, towels wadded into a corner, and there was nothing resembling sustenance in the kitchenette. Oh, they were gone all right, and without a wand to cast Patronus, there was nothing she could do.

_They're not here. They've gone off looking for you._

And Vol – _Riddle_ had known, hadn't he?

_That's why he was so eager to let you go. That's why he wanted to play this game. He knew you'd be on your own, he knew he'd be able to corner you – this was just to whet his appetite._

Hermione sank down next to the door, trying to think, trying to block out tears. _Where was Ron when she needed him?_ Oh, right; he was still in the future dealing with their fuck-up. She wished her father were there to give her a hug, but she hadn't trusted the safety of Wizarding Britain to bring them back. Not without endangering them. It was why she'd been helping Harry in the first place. Dangerous Death Eaters locked up or dead, she could bring her parents back safely. At the moment, her father still had no idea who she was. And he wouldn't have been brought on this little escapade anyway, so it was a moot point.

_Now what? Now what? Now what?_

She was working on that part.

Reaching into her jacket pocket – the jacket Riddle had so 'graciously' bestowed upon her – Hermione pulled out the silver cuff. He'd given it to her should she wish to parlay at any point during their game. It was a figurative white flag, a sort of time-out, as it were. It was a simple thing; just plain silver, no jewels encrusted into it, and buffed until she could see her reflection. Sighing with irritation and disappointment, she slipped it onto her wrist.

His script appeared in glowing letters on the cuff: _One hour._

So he was working.

Brilliant.

Just her luck the arsehole that had gotten her into this mess was currently too preoccupied to explain what the hell he was thinking.

_You know what he's thinking, Granger. And don't expect him to explain it to _you._ You are the prey, remember? He's _stalking_ you for a reason._

That wasn't a very comforting thought, but she would wait. She would wait a whole hour, but not in The Three Broomsticks. Madame Rosmerta probably wouldn't be all that keen on seeing her here, not after what had happened to her inn the last time Hermione and Riddle had had a little chat. Where did that leave Hermione?

_Madame Puddifoot's?_

Always a thought. A good deal less private than The Three Broomsticks, but, then, if Riddle made any moves on her – _there will be more people to _not_ stop him._ She seemed to keep forgetting that people in this age disliked Muggleborns more than they disliked Dark Wizards. Hell, Muggles would have been more help than most of these wizards and witches. As it was, being miles and miles away from the nearest Muggle village, Hermione elected to Madame Puddifoot's. At least it was warm, even if she couldn't pay for anything to eat or drink.

She hated using the expression, but Hermione found herself slinking into Madame Puddifoot's, trying to keep her head down. She squeezed in at one of the nearest empty tables, and slid into the seat, trying to keep her profile low. Taking the opportunity to look around, Hermione couldn't help but feel her hopes sink; she'd thought that perhaps the boys had come here, maybe to rehash some idiotic plan to seek her out and return her to safety. Her luck was apparently running out, as there was no familiar sign of Harry's messy black hair, Cormac's broad shoulders, or Neville's round blushing face. Nothing.

Biting her lip in consternation, Hermione resigned herself to looking out the window and imagining all the ways in which she would verbally abuse Tom Riddle. Not many of them were very productive, as Hermione was, for all intents and purposes, completely flustered. She didn't think she'd ever been this alone in her life, let alone the world of Wizarding Britain. And there was nothing to do but wait.

A woman in a shiny black bun approached her. "Can I make you something, dear?"

"Er – no, thank you. I'm waiting for a – " Well, this was a problem. How should she term Tom Riddle? "I'm waiting for an acquaintance of mine. He could be a while."

The smile on the woman's face faltered. "No problem, no problem." And she went on her way.

Hermione didn't blame her. Times were tough as it was; she didn't like using the establishment as shelter, mostly due to the abiding memory of pink frills on Valentine's Day, but it was her only option where there weren't hordes and hordes of people clambering over each other for one reason or another. At least here people bought products. It was a much more comfortable environment than Spintwitches or Scrivenshaft's. Tomes and Scrolls was, admittedly, an option, but Hermione had no money, and as far as she knew, she wasn't a masochist.

An hour alone is a long time to fill, particularly when one has no money for food or drink, and even more so when one has nothing to do. Hermione resigned herself to going over and over in her head her plan for surviving on her own. Given that she had, at most, shoes, a dress, and a jacket, the odds were not in her favour. She could ask Madame Rosmerta where the boys had gone, but there was no guarantee that it would prove a fruitful venture. Dumbledore was right out, or a Muggle was dead. Hogwarts wasn't an option, and without money or magic, she was stuck with going out on foot. On foot was one thing; on foot and stranded in Scotland was a completely different kettle of fish.

_Given that you'll have no other leads, Granger, wouldn't Rosmerta be a lucrative way to spend the next forty-five minutes?_

Probably. But only because she had no other means as to discovering what had become of the boys.

Rising from the table, she exited the shop quickly, hurrying back in the direction of The Three Broomsticks. Rosmerta would probably be very averse to seeing her again, and was likely as not more than pleased with the boys' absence. Still. . . .

Hermione entered the establishment quietly, not altogether certain of the validity of her idea. There were a good number of people today, and Rosmerta was busy pouring drinks. She spotted Hermione though, and her face clouded over. Before Hermione could turn tail and run, Rosmerta was waving her over; from her expression, Hermione judged that there was to be no arguing. She was simply supposed to go and speak to the landlady. And she did.

"Where in _Merlin's_ name have you been, girl?" the patroness hissed.

"I was kidnapped," Hermione replied breathlessly. "What happened to the boys?"

"They packed up and left early this morning," Rosmerta replied, pouring another round for her clientele. "They said to keep an eye out for you in case you came back here. Your Harry character left a letter for you."

"Did they say where they'd be going?"

Rosmerta shook her head. "Nope, they wouldn't tell me that much, and I don't blame them for it." She put down the jug of beer, and reached into her pocket. The missive had been written on the pub stationary, but it was folded sloppily, so Hermione knew it was Harry's. She didn't think she'd every been so happy to see Harry's handwriting in her life.

"Thank you," she said desperately. "Thank you, so very much."

Rosmerta waved it off. "Just you be careful, d'ye hear? Go to Dumbledore for help if you have to."

Hermione felt her stomach clench. "I'm afraid Dumbledore's out of the question," she said. "I've got people following, and they've said if we involve Dumbledore anymore they'll start killing Muggles left, right, and centre."

The woman's eyes narrowed. "I never was sure of that Tom Riddle," she said. "You go on then, and go careful. They won't be very pleasant should they catch you up."

No, indeed. "Thank you, Rosmerta." And Hermione fled the inn, hoping to read Harry's missive in peace. It took a while, but she found a back alleyway behind Potage's Cauldron Shop, and unfolded the note with trembling hands.

_Hermione: _

_If you're reading this, it means we haven't found you yet. Not to worry, we will. _

_We went up to see Dumbledore yesterday (the 25), and he reckons that if Voldemort hasn't released you by now, he's not likely to do so. If you did manage to escape, how did you do it? Neville and Cormac want to know in case the worst should happen._

_We plan on Apparating to Glasgow, and then we'll take a train to London. We've got no other plans, so we'll have to start there. If all goes well, we should arrive on the three o'clock. Maybe if we lurk around Diagon Alley we'll pick something up. Neville keeps pestering me to tell you that there may or may not have been a concealed time-pocket under Lestrange Manor. He reckons an explosion like the one from Lestrange could have triggered it, but none of us can make out why it brought us here specifically. Any ideas? Of course you do; you're Hermione Granger. _

_Staying Invisible with Lots of Love, _

_Harry, Neville, and Cormac _

Hermione leaned against the back wall of Potage's. They were knee-deep in a wholly new version of shit, and this game wasn't remotely connected to it. And now there was absolutely no means by which she could contact the boys to tell them how. Pacing, Hermione began to plan her next move.

If the boys had Apparated to Glasgow earlier that morning, that meant they were already on the train to London. Without a wand she couldn't Apparate, and without money she couldn't catch the train. Lord knew how the boys had managed it (probably with surprisingly decent Transfiguration), but she wouldn't be able to. Without Hedwig there was no way they could send word back to her, and there was no way she was risking something as simple as an owl right under Voldem – _Riddle's_ nose. Not right now, at least. Shoving the note back into her pocket, Hermione ran her fingers through her hair.

She was so screwed, and there was no way out of it.

_Damn. Damn, damn, damn, DAMN!_

She was pulled out of her reverie when a hand snatched her arm, and Hermione found herself thrown up against the wall with a good amount of force. The air left her lungs and she blinked, taking in the sight of the strange bearded fellow in front of her. His breath smelled of alcohol, and his clothes stank of bachelorhood. It took another moment for Hermione to realize what was happening, and then she fought.

It was useless: The bastard may have been drunk, but he had size and strength on his side. "It is _unwise_ to be wandering this part of Hogsmeade alone."

_And they let students make regular trips down here?!_

He spun Hermione, pushing her front roughly against Potage's wall. "You should think twice next time."

Hermione made one last violent effort, and managed to connect her elbow sharply to her offender's nose. She heard a crunch, and he took a step back, but before Hermione could make a proper break for it, she found her back being pressed to the wall, fingers clenching her throat in a death grip. Black was appearing around the edge of her vision when she was released, and before she knew it, something hard had connected with her face, lights were popping around her eyes, and muddy earth was blemishing her cheek.

"Teach you to fight me," came the inhuman growl.

Hermione struggled to her feet, not entirely sure how much power she had to fight off a man who was, likely, both drunk and self-aroused. He made for her, and Hermione balled her fingers into a fist, swinging with as much force as she could muster. Her arm was caught easily, and before she knew it, she'd been struck again, this time with her own fist for added weight. She could taste the blood in her mouth as a blow caught her eye; that would be swollen later, she knew. There was a ringing slap, and it took a moment for the pain to set into Hermione's brain, as she fell over a stack of cauldron crates, and down into the muck again.

Hermione looked up in time to see the hulking man moving to take off his jacket. He was interrupted when someone kicked at his knees from behind. There was an audible crack, and the fellow when down on one knee. A thin figure closed the distance from behind, grasping the man's chin and the back of his head, twisting the neck out of its proper place. The strange man dropped like a helpless dummy.

Hermione just stared, her head throbbing, and her brain too shocked to fully comprehend what was happening around her. It took a moment for it to occur to her that the man who'd come to her rescue was none other than Tom Riddle, the very devil himself. Hermione blinked, trying to stave off the migraine she felt developing.

"I thought you had another fifteen minutes," she managed to rasp out.

I got away early," he said casually, not bothering with an offer of help.

Hermione didn't bother getting off the ground. "You knew the boys would be gone, didn't you?"

He mewled in disgust. "I've just saved your virginity, possibly your life, and you're not even going to bother thanking me?"

"If I did it, would you thank me?"

"I wouldn't need you to save me, Muddy. Therefore, 'thank you' would be unnecessary."

"Then it shouldn't be necessary for you."

Riddle chuckled. "You are a stubborn one, aren't you Muddy?"

"It's a Gryffindor thing, you wouldn't understand. Why did you drop me here if you knew the boys were gone?" No way was he crawling out of this one.

"Your friends left you?" He didn't sound at all surprised. "Oh, how terribly dreadful." It didn't sound like he thought so. "Whatever are you going to do?"

"The rules have to be changed," Hermione said firmly, even if her voice was still hoarse.

"Rules changed?" Riddle chuckled. "Oh, Muddy, don't be stupid. The rules can't be changed unless I change them."

"They have to be. There's a stake, and the boys don't know it."

"I hardly see why that's my problem."

"Whatever happened to not being stupid?" she challenged. "They've Apparated to London, you know. They're looking for me, and they'll start with you." It was technically a lie, but this was Tom Riddle, not Harry Potter. "Now, we both know you're a talented wizard, there's no debating that. But, Harry can be quite impulsive and unpredictable when he's royally pissed off; he did kill you last time, remember. And he's got help now. Don't think you'll be able to fend them all off on your own."

By the time she'd finished she could see Riddle rubbing his chin thoughtfully: He was weighing her argument, and while he'd probably reject it, at least she had a foot in the door.

"What is it you want changed, Muddy?"

"Let me do magic."

"Out of the question," he said immediately. "If that's all, then – "

"Then at least take me back to London so I can find the boys."

"How do _you_ know they're in London?" he said, his eyes narrowing.

"That's the word on the street," Hermione said dismissively. She wasn't normally this proficient at lying, but she'd had some practise with the wizarding world in general and was quite a lot better for it.

Riddle dipped his hands into his pockets, thinking. "Very well," he said finally. "I'll Apparate you to London. From there you're on your own and the game is still in effect."

Hermione pursed her lips. Not entirely what she wanted, but. . . . "Fine."

Riddle held out his hand, and she took it, holding her breath. She was engulfed in the rubber tube that was Side-Along Apparition, and then suddenly they were in Diagon Alley. Hermione landed on her feet unsteadily, and fell into the Dark Lord. He took a step back, and she fell onto the cobbled street. She looked up at him, scowling.

"Arse."

"Mudblood."

And then, as if that had been their agreed-upon salutation, he turned on his heel and stalked back towards Knockturn Alley.

Hermione stood shakily, trying to ignore the curious looks around her. In their own time the people would have been more outraged at the moniker. This was 1946; most people, if not everyone, would be calling her a Mudblood here, and she would be foolish to expect anything different. Glancing at the sky, Hermione calculated how much time she had left, and began to make her way in the general direction of the Leaky Cauldron. It was slow progress, what with the number of people milling about, but she reached the back entrance and made her way inside. The smell was decidedly different, but still familiar, and Hermione was pleased to note it.

Pulling out Harry's missive, she glanced it over and pursed her lips thoughtfully. The three o'clock. That was all she had, but it was enough to get her where she needed to go. Glancing at the clock hanging over the counter, Hermione registered 2:15. That gave her time to get to the station. Would forty-five minutes be all the time she needed, or would she miss them by a mile again?

_Never mind that, Granger. MOVE!_

And move she did. Out onto the London streets, looking this way and that, trying to decide the fastest route; in the end she simply set off. If it came to it she could always come back to the Leaky Cauldron. The boys were lurking in Diagon Alley, which meant that they'd have to pass through the ancient pub at some point or other. She could wait for them there, but Riddle could have any number of his spies hanging about, downing liquor, looking for things to report back to their boss.

No, it was better to meet the boys at the station if she could.

Glancing around for any sign of time, Hermione caught a glimpse: 2:30. Half an hour left, and she wasn't anywhere near where she needed to be. Perhaps she ought to run for it?

_Let's be real, Granger, you're not much of a runner. How far do you think you're going to be getting in your shape, with your shoes?_

It didn't really matter, did it? Running would go farther than walking, and covering ground was the vital part of her mission at this moment. Just because Britain was on rations didn't mean the railway was completely out of use. For Hermione's part it was probably the only possible way to travel. She'd have to get one of the boys to Transfigure a ticket for her, but it was entirely possible that they'd be able to hop around the country in the coaches of a train. She wasn't entirely sure how Riddle would rule Side-Along Apparition in regards to her use of magic, but it wasn't a risk she was willing to take, not with three innocent Muggles on the line.

_Move your arse, Granger!_

And move she did. There were a few odd looks here and there, and a good number of people started in surprise, instinctively looking about themselves for any sign of danger. Any other time it might have seemed ridiculous to Hermione. Of course, any other time she would have been chased by Ron, and then it would have been amusing.

_Don't think about him, you overly-emotional twat. There's not enough time. You can have a proper cry when you've found the boys and worked it into your plan._

There was a stitch in her chest gracelessly reminding Hermione just how out of shape she was, and the street signs seemed to be mocking her with their distance readings. She glimpsed a clock: Twenty minutes left to her, and she was still so far away.

_By Merlin, you are slow!_

Fifteen minutes, and she was only a few blocks now. . . .

_There it is!_

Ten minutes, and such ground to cover. . . .

_Don't you dare miss them again!_

Five minutes. . . .where was the three o'clock? More specifically, where was the three o'clock from Glasgow?

_Platform 7 – Platform 7?! How the hell are you going to reach Platform 7 in time?_

Two minutes – Hermione was counting in her head – and there was the train pulling slowly in to Platform 7. She climbed partway up a column, looking about nervously for the boys.

_Wait for them to get off the train. Thirty fucking seconds, Granger._

It seemed an eternity, but the doors opened, and passengers began to slowly file out. Hermione looked this way and that, scanning the crowd, but not one familiar face did she see. No Harry, no Neville, not even a glimpse of Cormac to ease her mind.

Had they gotten on the wrong train?

_Not bloody likely._

They were supposed to come. Harry had said, quite specifically, they were on the three o'clock from Glasgow. So why hadn't they got off the train? For one harrowing second she remembered how Malfoy had detained Harry on the train in Sixth Year. . .but they were on a train full of Muggles, and the Ministry stated explicitly that unless life-threatening circumstances required it, magic in front of Muggles was right out. Harry wasn't stupid enough to show off, and he had Neville's cool head and Cormac's panicky nature to keep him in check. Besides that, there had been no commotion when the Muggles had begun to make their way out of the carriages, which meant –

"Excuse me, Miss?"

Hermione wheeled about, coming face-to-face with a young man sporting a pair of bright blue eyes. He had light brown hair, a thin, pale face, and shabby clothes; in fact, for a brief moment, she'd thought it was Remus, back from the dead.

"Me?"

"Are you a Miss Hermione Granger?"

Hermione felt her survival instincts kick into high gear. "That depends on who's asking."

The stranger held out his hand. "Ben Whitrow," he said pleasantly. "You wouldn't happen to be friends with a one Pip Wilde, would you?"

_Harry_. "You know him?"

"Messy black hair?" said Whitrow. "Green eyes? Scar on his forehead?"

_Harry!_ "Where is he?" she gushed. "He was supposed to meet me here!"

Ben Whitrow held out a piece of tightly rolled parchment. "He asked me to give this to you in case you were here. Your photograph is rolled with it."

_Where did he get a photograph. . .?_ "Er – thank you, Mr. Whitrow."

The man held up a hand to stop her thanks. "It was nothing; he and his friends looked to be in a bit of a pinch." Digging in his pockets, he pulled out a small card, and nestled it into Hermione's hand. "If ever you need help, that's my address."

"Awfully kind of you to be helping a stranger," said Hermione shrewdly. "I'm afraid I have no way to repay you."

Whitrow shrugged off the thanks again. "We're all in a tight spot these days, thanks to Chancellor Hitler. It's the least I can do."

It wasn't a favour strangers bestowed every day. "I do appreciate it, Mr. Whitrow. Thank you."

The man simply smiled, shook her hand, and bid her good day before getting lost in the crowd. Hermione sucked her teeth, trying not to be overwhelmed with a sudden onslaught of fury. _Honestly_, the least they could have done was make it obvious they had another trick up their sleeves. Obvious to _her_ anyway.

_Mayhap that was the purpose of the notation from Neville?_

That was likely, but she was still annoyed with them. Unfurling the tightly bound parchment, Hermione took one look at it, and then turned tail, running back the way she had come fast as her feet could carry her. She had to make it. _She had to make it this time._

_**I realize that a walk from Charing Cross Road to King's Cross would only take about half an hour, but we needed drama and embellishments. and there had to be some sort of consideration for street changes, traffic, other people, etc. My question is, does anybody recognize the name of the man who passes on Harry's note? Take a guess!**  
_


	13. Chapter 13

_**Yes, I know it's been months, and for that I am terribly sorry. However, I'm moving to Maryland in the next couple of months, so I've not had as much time as any of us might have liked. That being said, I also apologise for the appalling shortness of this chapter. I shall try to have a lengthier addition next time I update. **_

_**Please review this! Constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated!**_

_**~AI  
**_

**Chapter 13**

By the time Hermione made it to the Old Bailey, she could hardly breathe. It had been difficult enough to run from The Leaky Cauldron all the way to the train station, but to run another mile and a half nearly killed her. The Old Bailey wasn't anything close to being a whole piece, and there were a good number of people milling about for obscure purposes which Hermione couldn't be bothered to analyse. She began looking up and down the street, even wandering around the edge of the building in search of the boys.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Nil. They were nowhere to be found.

Stumped, Hermione made her way back to the front of the courthouse, plopping down on the steps, confused. Just as an idea popped into her head, a familiar figure came into view, grinning ear to ear. Hermione clenched her teeth, willing herself not to explode.

"I'm impressed, Muddy!" he said. "I truly didn't think you'd make it before I did."

"What have you done with the boys?"

"Do you ever just stop for a chat?"

"Not with Dark Wizards," she snapped. "What have you done with the boys?"

"My boys intercepted them at Glasgow," he said with a smile.

Hermione leaped up from the steps. "You. Did. _What?_"

"Yes," the Dark Lord replied, apparently unconcerned. "You see, I wondered how it was, exactly, that you knew they were in London. According to Avery, they told no one where they were going, and they'd only left a note with Rosmerta. But, you see, you told me it was the word on the street. Nothing about their trip to Glasgow, nothing about their plans to meet you at Platform 7, and nothing about your plans."

"That wasn't part of the deal," Hermione obligingly pointed out to him.

Riddle looked down at her, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "Wasn't it?"

She understood a little bit better now: He didn't want her to think like a Slytherin. He wanted her to play like a Gryffindor. She was not to take advantage of his loopholes, she was not keep secrets.

"Who did you kill?"

"I don't know. One of the men. I couldn't be bothered to get his name."

Hermione sank back down onto the steps. What about his family? What about his friends? What would happen to them? Did he have children, a wife, parents? "Where did you dump his body?"

"Aha," said Riddle. "Here we reach the other component of my thoughts: I realised that I'd forgotten a key element that makes a game so interesting. No goals have been set for you." Hermione bit her lip and buried her face in her hands; now mightn't be the best time to inform him she had been planning to sneak home behind his back. "Here." He held out a tightly rolled scroll of paper.

"What is this?" she said.

"The newest bit of the game."

Hermione swallowed hard and unfurled the note. A riddle was written across it in Riddle's very distinct hand. "You want me to find him." This had been the ulterior motive. He had wanted to see her survive without magic before he released "the newest bit of the game." She was tempted to call it the most polite he'd ever been, but she had a hunch he was feeling very let down by her abilities to survive.

"Indeed." Riddle was becoming giddy with pleasure. "And when you find him there will be another riddle attached; solve it in time, and you may just prevent the death of another Muggle. When the other two have been killed or released, depending on your success rate, we'll make this even better, up the ante, if you catch my drift."

Hermione did catch it, and she didn't like what she was finding. "Not the boys."

"Oh, yes." This time he actually giggled. "Oh, Muddy, this could prove to be an exceptional experience for both of us."

"Please, not the boys."

"Why ever not?"

"We just want to go home!"

"Yes, and I don't want to die," he retorted. "D'you see how this is working out, Muddy?"

"Please!" Hermione wasn't above begging.

"What, so you can go home and kill me, happy as larks?" He wagged his finger at her. "I think not."

"What do you want?"

"I want you to play the game."

"If I find the Muggles in time, you have to let them go free, and you have to help us go home."

Riddle rolled his eyes. "What part of 'I make the rules' did you fail to understand?"

"There has to be a compromise, some way I can insure the boys' safety."

Riddle looked like he might actually take this suggestion into consideration. "I shall consider the idea and apply it accordingly." He clasped his hands behind his back. "Fair warning, Muddy, you may not like the terms of the compromise."

"If you've got anything to do with any of them, I'm sure I won't," she returned scathingly.

"Now, now, Muddy, don't be so hard on me. I may turn this in your favour. It's not likely, but I may. If I am . . . duly pleased. I think this could work very well for both of us."

"What do you mean?"

"What do you think I mean?"

"You're not going to make me kill anyone, are you?"

He shrugged. "I didn't have it in mind, but now that you mention it –"

_Oh nicely done, Granger. Very nicely done._

She could reclaim this fight. She wasn't sure how, but she knew she could. "What do I get?"

Riddle actually snorted in amusement. "I'm sorry?"

"What do I get? Besides the clue. There has to be something else."

His eyes seemed to dance with humour. "Oh, very well, I'll play along. What is it you want?"

Hermione was thinking quickly. "You said Dumbledore was off limits, and I couldn't go to him for help."

"Correct." His eyes narrowed; he was sensing her exploitation of a loophole.

"But you never said I couldn't contact the dead."

"Granger –"

"There is a mirror that will be in Borgin and Burke's –"

"Yes, I know it!"

Hermione could smell victory, but would she get to taste it? Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, had revealed a chink in his armour; he didn't want her to have help from Dumbledore, and while the dead might not have been the easiest or most peaceful way of doing things, she would have greater success than trying to do this on her own. The mirror, an artefact salvaged from the Salem witch hunts, could be accessed by any soul not trapped inside its own body, if allowed by Hermione, becoming a house of sorts. Theoretically, she could speak to souls trapped inside dementors, possibly even free them, but Hermione only knew a handful of people who had been fed to dementors; none of them existed in this time, and she wasn't all that keen to speak to them anyway. The only question was –

"Absolutely not."

"Oh, come on!"

"No, Granger."

"Why not?!"

"I don't want you getting help from beyond the grave."

"He's my age!" she spluttered. "He's not actually as clever as I am, but I can bounce ideas off him."

_Not the nicest you've ever been, Granger._

"Him? Your help, your _dead_ help, is a _him_?"

"Well . . ." Hermione knew she couldn't lie to him now. Rabastan would know of the incident, and he would probably set Riddle straight. "Technically he's not dead."

"Go on."

"He was going to be fed to the dementors, so I – well, I hid his soul inside my body."

"You stupid girl!" He was right about that one, actually. Ironic in a very unironic way; it was a very dangerous thing to have done, and if any of her former professors had been there to see it, Hermione would have been given the worst hiding of her life, probably by Professor McGonagall. "Do you have any idea how much jeopardy you placed yourself in?"

"I don't think the man who spent several years trying to kill me and my friends is allowed to sound so upset about this," said Hermione sternly.

Riddle crossed his arms over his chest, his chin resting on his fingers; he was weighing the pros and cons to this, Hermione could tell. Would the pros outweigh the cons in her favour? She hoped so.

"What's his name?"

"Sorry?"

"What is the soul's name?"

_Best not lie about this one._

"Draco Malfoy."

Riddle's eyes lit up. "A Malfoy?"

"S'what I said."

"You gave a Malfoy permission to house his soul inside your body?" Riddle sounded almost gleeful.

"More or less."

_He thinks you were foolish. He probably expects to manipulate the situation._

And he would use the mirror as bait for his trap.

"Oh, how delightfully Gryffindor of you."

He didn't actually expect to use Draco as leverage, did he?

_It wouldn't be difficult, especially with a dementor handy._

This was a path best travelled carefully. "So, may I?"

"Use the mirror?"

"Please?"

"Dear me, how can I possibly refuse the word 'please'?"

"You're getting more out of this than I am, I'll have you know," Hermione snapped.

_Dammit, don't tempt him, Granger. _

Yes, it would probably be much more successful if Riddle thought it was his own idea.

"All right, you can have the mirror – "

_Dammit._

" – but I will exact a means of payment, in some form or other."

_Do __not__ use your imagination._

"What will you want?"

Riddle shrugged. "I'll let you know."

"That won't work for me."

Riddle laughed. "That's not really for you to decide, is it, Muddy?"

"Actually, it is." When Riddle laughed again, Hermione got to her feet. "You see, you might make some sort of demand – let's say, for the sake of my Muggle history, you want me to turn straw into gold. That requires magic, and can't be done any other way. But if I'm not allowed magic – "

"What I have in mind for you, Mudblood," Riddle interrupted, "will be much more accessible and much easier to provide than golden straw."

Hermione bit back a frustrated sigh. "And here we are, back at Square One."

"I'm not going to tell you what to expect, Muddy. Use your imagination."

"I'm not liking what my imagination's conjuring up."

"That's not really my problem."

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but before she could begin to form the words, an arm sneaked around her waist, pulled her quite close, and she suddenly being Apparated into Borgin and Burke's. As quickly as they arrived, Riddle released his grip on Hermione; she was ready for it this time, and caught her balance with a small step backward. Riddle hardly noticed, as his back was turned and he was scanning the shelves in the dingy shop.

"The mirror is extraordinarily expensive, Muddy," he said. "Have you any money?"

_For your sake, Granger, he'd better be playing prick._

"Nope."

"Then you're out of luck, aren't you?" Riddle replied, turning around and letting a small grin tug at the corners of his mouth. "No money, no mirror."

"I was thinking about stealing it."

The grin faded immediately. "That's a very foul crime, Muddy."

"Oh, because murdering Myrtle was completely legal," Hermione retorted.

"As an employee of the company, Muddy Granger, I cannot allow you to steal a piece of store property." He was sounding quite pleased about this.

An object on the shelf opposite Hermione caught her eye. "Fine. What's that?"

Riddle furrowed his brow. "What's what?"

As fast and hard as she could, Hermione delivered her best punch to his kidneys. Riddle's knees buckled, and he reached out his right arm to steady himself on the shelf closest. Hermione caught the appendage and brought the edge of her hand down on his throat; the breath caught in Riddle's throat, and he dropped to the floor like a brick.

Hermione wasn't sure how long he would be unconscious, so she worked quickly. Sneaking his wand from his pocket, she cast as many detection spells as she knew; they all came up negative. Clearly Borgin and Burke relied on the reputation of their shop to keep thieves away. As Riddle began to stir, Hermione cast a Sleeping Charm, and reached for the mirror. As soon as it was in her grasp, she felt a swooping, cold sensation throughout her body, and the mirror began to glow. After a very long and confusing moment for Hermione, she saw a barely discernible face peeking at her through the glass.

"Well done, Granger, even if it was a bit stupid."

"I'm making do," she said, tucking the wand back into Riddle's pocket. "Now, then, I believe we have a very dead body to find."


	14. Chapter 14

_**I do apologize for this being so late, once again. Some of you talked about the cliffhangers in your reviews, and some of you seemed a little bit confused as to the purpose of the game. Hopefully the questions you have will be answered quickly and satisfactorily. **_

_**Do enjoy this next chapter, and leave a review please!**_

_**~AI**_

**Chapter 14**

_In a church of repute_

_Without a normal school route_

_You'll find at least half your treasure._

_Find its match,_

_Doff your hat, _

_And you'll have a lengthy tether._

"None of that is making any sense at all," said Malfoy sourly.

Hermione had made her way back to King's Cross Station, and was sitting in an alcove, staring down the parchment. "It's St. Paul's," she said quietly.

"Sorry?" said Malfoy incredulously.

"It's St. Paul's. Gotta be."

Malfoy was silent a minute, and then said, "Yes, and the Dark Lord's mother was half-mallard." When Hermione looked at him blankly, he sighed. "Do you see how it feels?"

" 'A church of repute, Without a normal school route. . . .'" she said. "What else could it be?"

"Westminster Abbey," said Malfoy.

"True," said Hermione, "but it's not."

"There is a school at St. Paul's," said Malfoy stubbornly.

Hermione nodded. "In our time, yes, there were. Now they're on Carter Lane, and they'll stay there until the 1960's. I mean, technically, yes, they are part of the church, but they're not strictly _at_ the church . . . d'you understand?"

"No," said Malfoy flatly.

Hermione sighed. "The Westminster Abbey Choir School has been in the same place since 1919. St. Paul's has been moved at least three times already, and it took thirty years of campaigning before it was built on Carter Lane." She looked down at the mirror, taking in Malfoy's befuddled look. "Just trust me on this, okay?"

"Why would you hide a dead body in St. Paul's?" he said.

"Because it violates sensibilities and it's generally pretty horrifying," said Hermione. "Why else?" She looked down at Malfoy, who was looking distinctly irritated with her. "What?"

"You know, it's a pity the Dark Lord is a racist and you are a Muggleborn."

"Why?"

"You would be one hell of a couple."

Hermione's mouth dropped open, and she stared down at Malfoy, appalled. "You take that back, you twitchy little ferret!"

"Your children would probably be horribly confused about right and wrong, but I'm sure they'd be smashingly attractive enough to make up for it, if they had his genetic traits."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "You are dangerously close to being trapped inside a cracked mirror, Malfoy."

"What, Granger, do you want your children to have buck-teeth and bushy hair?" She scowled at him. "I thought not."

"Malfoy – " she said in warning, but he cut her off.

"At any rate, do you really want seven years of bad luck for breaking me?" His tone was cheeky, and he cocked an eyebrow. "I mean, think about it: Seven years of bad luck, and you'll be stuck with _the Dark Lord_."

Hermione was still glaring at him, but had suddenly experienced a change of heart about breaking the mirror. "Fine," she finally huffed. "But don't you ever mention me having children with him again. So help me, I will find a way to make you miserable."

Malfoy chortled. "Granger, I'm as good as a ghost; there is nothing you could possibly do to make me more miserable."

"I could make you watch," she said.

Even for a bodiless soul Malfoy looked quite pale. "Granger, you wouldn't. . . ." he said hoarsely.

Hermione paused for a moment to let the possibilities sink into his head, and then gagged. "Absolutely not."

If there had been a chair nearby, and he had had a body, Malfoy would have dropped into it with relief, she was sure. "Merlin be praised," he groaned. "And here I thought you were suddenly turning into some sort of scarlet woman."

Hermione made a face as she remembered her Fourth Year, but said nothing. "Let's just get to St. Paul's shall we?"

Without waiting to see if Malfoy agreed or disagreed, Hermione shot up from her seat in the alcove, and took off towards St. Paul's. It would be quite the run, and she was more than a little tired out from today's events, but if luck were on her side she'd find that body before the sun set altogether. Knowing where Riddle lived made it easier to hand in the notes – if he would take the notes as evidence of her success. Just what she ought to do with the bodies, Hermione wasn't sure; she was good at improvising though . . . at least, she thought so.

Stopping to let traffic pass, Hermione pulled out the mirror. "Did he give us a time frame?"

"Nope," said Malfoy gloomily. "And he didn't say he wouldn't tip off the police either. If they find you with a dead body, Granger . . . ."

"Hopefully it'll be all right," she said. "Let's not press our luck, though." Traffic cleared, and strange looks being levelled at her, Hermione dashed on.

"Granger," Malfoy called at the next stop, "what happens if the police find us with a body?"

"I don't know," she said, gasping for breath. "Hopefully nothing terrible, as they'll likely find a soul inside of a mirror as well. Goodness knows how frightening _that'll_ be for Muggles."

"Do you have any earthly idea how frightening it is for me?" he retorted.

Hermione shrugged, and lurched forward again.

She'd forgotten the nearly two miles it was from King's Cross to St. Paul's. On the bright side, at the end of this game she was going to be in the best shape of her life. She hadn't run this much since the Third Wizarding War, and then she'd mostly done walking. There was hardly any running to be done until the Battle of Hogwarts. As she came up to Chancery Lane, Hermione skidded to a stop: She had passed St. Alban the Martyr Church . . . . Riddle hadn't hidden the body there, had he? Or had he hidden half of it at St. Paul's and the other half at St. Alban? She was torn for a long moment, and then decided to continue on her former course, pointing herself toward Fetter Lane. The worst that could happen was that she was right and she would be forced to double back. Actually, the worst that could happen was that she was wrong and she would be forced to hang around St. Paul's until she'd figured it out, in which case another person would die. But there was nowhere else for her to go. She voiced the thought to Draco, and he immediately disagreed.

"What d'you mean, nowhere else? Just go back to Brixton."

"Brixton."

"Yes."

"Where Riddle, Lord Voldemort lives?"

"Well," he said, "when you say it like that it just sounds stupid."

"Because it _is_ stupid!" Hermione snapped quietly. It would be difficult enough to get around St. Paul's without looking suspicious; she didn't need people telling police they'd seen a strange girl wandering about, barefoot, dirty, and talking to a mirror. "If I go back there, he'll just tie me up again, and then I'll have to break out again, and that was exhausting to the nth degree!"

"Granger, he wants you to play his game. He's not going to tie you up."

Hermione shot a challenging look at the mirror, and Malfoy's reaction was enough for her to know that he understood not to argue her point. Hermione turned at Fetter Lane, keeping her pace at a steady and cautious jog so as not to impale her foot if she could avoid it. She turned down Fleet Street, looking as far ahead as she possibly could. "At Ludgate Circus we can take Ludgate Hill, and from there –"

"Granger, I know," Malfoy interrupted. "Stop talking to the bloody mirror and hurry the hell up!"

And Hermione did hurry.

She was biting back her frustration with Tom Riddle and his cursed need to complicate things. Was it so hard to kill a person and just tell her where he'd stashed the body? Wouldn't it make things more interesting to see if she could find it and remove it before the Muggles did? Of course not. That would be too simple, and Merlin forbid he do something decent _ever_. And she still hadn't come up with a plan for how to get rid of the body without drawing attention to herself.

Maybe she would just leave it? Someone was certain to find it sooner or later, weren't they? Decomposing bodies didn't tend to release nice scents into the air. Maybe she could just sneak the note away and leave the body for someone else. That was probably the most feasible plan.

"Watch it!" someone yelped as Hermione barrelled into them.

She looked down at the blonde man tying his shoe in the street, and although he had his head covered and was hunched over, she recognized Abraxas Malfoy immediately. Not stopping for the apology, Hermione hurtled onwards, running even faster now, trying to ignore the stitch in her chest as she came upon on Ludgate Circus. As she paused to find an opening in traffic, Draco shouted, "Don't stop! That was my grandfather, and he's not here to help!"

He had a point, Hermione realized, and throwing caution to the winds, she darted out into traffic. "Are you mad?!" shouted Abraxas from behind her, but Hermione didn't stop to goad him or to even acknowledge he had spoken; she was busy dodging cars in the street. Lady Luck must have been on her side, because she made it across without too much trouble, and the dome of St. Paul's loomed ahead.

Her feet were flying, and her lungs burned; a few missteps, and Hermione's feet were bleeding. She couldn't be bothered about it, even when Malfoy pointed out that it would make it easier for Abraxas to track them. He already had magic on his side, a trail of bread crumbs was hardly going to do any more harm.

And then suddenly she was there. She was in St. Paul's churchyard, and night was beginning to fall rapidly. No alarum had been raised, and a crowd hadn't been gathered, so Hermione had to assume that the Muggle's body hadn't yet been found. All the better, then. She stole around the side of the church, scanning the yard in the dark, trying to find the body of the poor Muggle in near-blackness. An initial scanning of the darkened outside yielded nothing of success, and Hermione made her way around the whole of the church.

"You don't think he'd have put the poor fucker inside, do you?" said Malfoy.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Language, Malfoy . . . and, no, I don't. Then again, I wouldn't, so he probably would. Finding a body in a churchyard isn't nearly as horrific as finding it at the alter."

"They're closing up for the evening," said Malfoy. "How can no one have noticed this all day?"

"Wizards use magic, Malfoy, even when they aren't supposed to."

He grunted to acknowledge her point, but the look on his face told Hermione that whatever she might have thought of him before, the wrongdoings of Tom Riddle rankled with Draco Malfoy. "Are you waiting for everyone to go home so you can break in?" he said sarcastically.

Hermione stared at the giant building for a long moment. "I have no idea what I'm going to do," she said.

"Whatever it is, make it quick," Malfoy warned. "My grandfather should be along any second now."

What sounded like the Choral Evensong was floating out of the church, so Hermione, with bleeding bare feet, made her way up the stone steps, and slipped in a side door. As she leaned against the walls, trying to blend in and be unnoticed, she gave herself a minute to look up at the ceiling. She had been to St. Paul's several times as a child, and it never failed to fill her with a sense of awe and admiration. She wasn't sure about the idea of God, but she was very sure that Wren had been a total genius. The cathedral was testament to that.

Hermione looked around, registering in her mind the fact that several people were kneeling in prayer, and clergy were busy at work. Nothing seemed remotely out of place, there was no sign of a dead body anywhere. She looked down at the mirror; Malfoy had apparently come to the same conclusion. "Galleries," he said softly.

Hermione nearly cried.

She'd spent the day running about, chasing one group of wizards and constantly being interrupted by her least favourite sociopath. Her feet were bleeding, her body ached from running, and she'd had nothing to eat since the eggs Riddle had given her. The very _last_ thing she wanted to do was climb a lot of stairs into the cathedral galleries.

"He'd bloody better be there," she said under her breath.

It was all good and well saying you were going to search the galleries; it was another thing entirely to actually do it. There were stairs upon stairs to climb, and Hermione was already worn to bits from the excitement of the day. It was two-hundred fifty-nine steps from the ground up, and Hermione was lagging by step thirty.

"Well isn't this a fine mess," said Malfoy gloomily.

"I will get there," Hermione said wearily. "Just be patient."

"I have no choice but to _be_ patient; I'm all but a ghost, remember," Malfoy reminded her. "It's the Dark Lord that I'm worried about. He's not known for playing by his rules, Granger."

"I know," she said, hauling herself up and continuing her trudge. "Believe me, I know."

"You've been very understanding, Granger," Malfoy said suddenly.

"What d'you mean?" Hermione answered, resolving to keep her answers short; she simply didn't have the breath left.

"About the whole – I dunno, me-being-a-Death-Eater-thing." It was obviously something he seemed to have trouble saying out loud. "By 'understanding' I of course mean 'kind,'" he added as an afterthought. "You've been very kind, Granger."

Hermione paused again, leaning against the wall. "Malfoy, you don't have to thank me, or pretend not to thank me, or whatever it is you're doing. It's not necessary. I'd do it for anyone I thought was innocent. You were never a Death Eater, not like they wanted you to be."

He didn't reply, but stared at her through the mirror, as though mulling over what she had said like it was a foreign concept. Hermione let him stew on it, and kept up the climb. She was moving at a steady pace, but the steady pace was taking it out of her, and she was tempted to slow down. The thought of the dead Muggle mouldering at the top of these steps quickened her pace, and she stopped counting the stairs – she was now at eighty – and began hastening her climb.

Her thighs burned, her chest ached, her mouth was dry, her head hurt, and her ears were ringing by the time Hermione made it to step two-hundred fifty-nine and crossed into the Whispering Gallery. Her legs shook as she walked, and she was tempted to drop to the floor and sleep right there on the spot. There was no guarantee, however, that someone wouldn't come along after the Evensong and find her there. Church or not, she was counting on the kindness of those who directed the administration of the cathedral. Hermione stumbled on, squinting her eyes, trying to see in the darkness.

"Once again, I find myself cursing the name Riddle," she said, more to herself than to Malfoy. "Would it kill him to at least allow me to do a light?"

As she said it she was startled out of her wits: She had been walking along, trying to see in the darkness, when she suddenly tripped over a squashy mass, and fell flat on her face. For a brief moment she was reminded of the time she had rowed with Ron and tripped over him as she tried to leave the room she shared with Ginny at the Burrow. She was exhausted enough that for an exquisite moment in time she believed she'd tripped over Ron, and a surge of hope spread through her chest. When she felt the body, however, her hopes were dashed, and Hermione bit back the urge to shudder.

It was the Muggle, and it seemed as though he had been tortured terribly before Voldemort killed him.

"Where does he get off?" she hissed angrily.

"I couldn't tell you," said Malfoy from the mirror. It had slipped from Hermione's grasp and slid across the floor. "Personally I've always found killing to be slightly disgusting."

"This from the boy who was ever so eager to donate a hippogriff's head to the Gryffindor common room?" said Hermione wryly.

Malfoy was silent a moment. "Personally," he said, in the same tone as before, "I've always found killing _people_ to be slightly disgusting."

Hermione wasn't about to let him get away with it. "Animal rights activists would say that hippogriff's are people too," she replied.

"Oh for fuck's sake!" Malfoy exploded. "Animals are not people, and anyone who is confused as to the concept should be fixed and never allowed to reproduce!"

Hermione frowned as she felt the pockets of the poor dead Muggle. "That seems a bit harsh, Malfoy."

"Stupid people breed other stupid people," he snapped. "If you'd like to purge the stupid from society, don't let them breed."

"Stupid is a relative concept," Hermione retorted, frowning when she came up with nothing from the dead man's pockets. "I can't find anything," she called.

"I wish I could help," Malfoy replied sardonically, "but I'm kind of stuck."

"No," said Hermione thoughtfully. "There's nothing there; his pockets have been completely emptied."

Malfoy was silent a very long and sombre minute, and then said, "Granger, pick me up and lets get out of here. He's set you up. They're going to come for you."

Hermione didn't immediately move. "That seems rather complicated," she said.

"Don't question me on this," pleaded Malfoy. "You pissed him off, and now he's looking to get his own back. Let's get out of here."

"But what about Harry and the boys?" Hermione insisted. "Their lives are hanging in the balance, not to mention the two other Muggles your Dark Lord has taken. What do you propose we do about them?"

"We can come up with that plan later," he snapped. "When Evensong is over, they're going to come up here and look for us, and they'll find us with a dead body. What more evidence do they need?"

Hermione was about to say "Forensic," but then remembered that she'd just spent the last minute feeling up a corpse for a piece of paper that wasn't there. "Damn," she said under breath. "Fine." She got up on her wobbly legs, and crossed to where Malfoy's mirror was laying. "We should probably find a shelter or something," she said. "Not the easiest place to live when you're homeless, London."

"Whatever," said Malfoy urgently. "Just move!"

Hermione started back towards the steps to take the trip back down, and then she halted in her tracks: What if he . . . . ?

He would. It was his game.

But that would be silly. He couldn't possibly have this kind of time on his hands.

Then again, he might. He was a Dark Lord, to be sure, but even Dark Lords need to play games now and again to keep themselves amused. She turned around, trying to force her eyes to adjust to the dark. She could see nothing, but Hermione Granger had learned the hard way that not seeing someone didn't mean they weren't present.

"You're on the other side of the gallery," she said aloud.

There was a laugh, and Hermione's insides clenched. "Well done, Muddy."

Malfoy let out a string of very rude words, and because he couldn't actually hide anywhere, or run away, settled for folding his arms across his chest and fading into the mirror as much as he could. "Be careful," he mouthed at Hermione, and she nodded, tucking the mirror into her waist, glass side facing out. If he were a solid being he would have tried his best to help her. As it was, he was stuck in a mirror and could offer no support whatsoever; she wasn't going to hold that against him.

"Okay, come on," Hermione said. "Where is it?"

"Where is what?" Riddle was still on the other side of the gallery.

"The riddle," Hermione said tiredly, "and, no, I don't mean you."

Riddle laughed again. "Why don't you come and get it?" he whispered. "You're so good at getting things on your own, after all."

"Is this revenge for knocking you out?" Hermione said. "Because you wanted me to play like a Gryffindor, and that was a very Gryffindor thing to do."

"It seemed rather Slytherin to me."

"That's because you were never in Gryffindor. If we want something, and you get in the way, we knock you out, that's how it goes."

Riddle didn't answer, and Hermione wasn't sure if that had been the answer he was looking for. Tom Riddle, it seemed, didn't care about the true answer; he cared about the answer he wanted to hear. Unfortunately for him, she was a Gryffindor, and Gryffindors hardly played by Slytherin rules. If he'd wanted someone to bend to his rules, he'd have done better to get one of his Death Eaters. They were properly terrified of him; they probably licked his boots to avoid a –

Arms were suddenly wrapped around her, and a hand was clamped down over her mouth. "You are treading on some very thin ice, Mudblood," Riddle whispered. He was no longer amused; in fact, Hermione was sure, he was excreting a thousand kinds of pissed off through his pores. "That's two Muggles you've gotten killed, and if you're not careful, there will be a third, and your friends will go along with them."

Hermione was careful to let her body go slack. Riddle noticed, and pushed her away. Hermione staggered with the force of the shove, and had barely caught her footing when he snatched her wrist. She turned wildly, trying to see him, but was met instead with one, two, and three punches. The first two landed on her face, and the third went deep into her stomach. Hermione went down like a load of bricks, gasping for air. Punches to the stomach always make one feel sick, and Hermione, try though she might, couldn't help vomiting on the gallery floor. She used the moment to slip Malfoy's mirror out of her waistband, sliding it away to the wall of the gallery.

And a good thing it was, too, because Riddle didn't seem to be done. She had expected magic; she was prepared for magic. This was Muggle force, and greatly out of character for the most powerful Dark Lord in a hundred years. He kicked her ribs soundly, though how many times she wasn't sure; she lost count at six. If her ribs weren't cracked or broken, they were certainly going to be bruised quite badly.

The toe of his shoe caught her abdomen, and Hermione curled up into a ball. From below the sound of the choir was filtering up to them, and Hermione had a sickening feeling that if she screamed, no on would hear her. By now Riddle had conjured a wooden rod, and he was beating her fiercely with it. Hermione could only moan; her chest was too sore for anything else.

They felt like the longest moments of her life, but the blows finally ceased, and Hermione lay shaking in a pool of her own blood, fear, adrenaline, and anger coursing through her veins. She wanted to beat him in turn, to claw his eyes out, to pummel him into an oozing pulp until his wounds mirrored her own . . . .

The most she could do was twitch.

This wasn't Tom Riddle's first party, and she reckoned it wouldn't be his last.

He used his foot to turn her on her back, and Hermione saw the light at the end of his wand beaming into her face. "You're supposed to fight back, Mudblood," he spat. "You can't, though, can you?" He leaned in close to her. "You can't because you're a filthy Mudblood. You have no power; you have no talent. You're nothing but a jumped up Muggle. Your kind deserve to be wiped out. You're a lot of cockroaches; you're not even worth that title. You're the lowest pile of dung I've ever – ."

He didn't have a chance to finish his statement. Hermione, overcome with rage, had hurled herself at him, and knocked him to the floor. Her entire body ached, but Hermione was beyond noticing. She was just so _angry_. She hadn't asked to be thrown back in time by Lestrange, she hadn't asked to be pulled into Voldemort's pointless fight over blood purity; she was becoming increasingly distraught over being stuck in a world so foreign and so far from home, and found herself beginning to wonder if she would ever see Ron again. She missed the red-haired gorilla so much it hurt, and there was nothing she could do about it, not without getting a lot of very innocent people killed.

Hermione was beyond angry, and she channelled that anger, putting all the force she could muster from her aching body behind her fists, making sure not to leave too much room between his torso and her blows. When Riddle was on his back she straddled his chest, still punching and squeezing with her legs as hard as she could. As he was fighting off her blows it took a moment for Riddle to notice how difficult it was becoming for him to breathe.

Somehow – and Hermione couldn't figure it out – he managed to gather the strength to stand up and body slam Hermione into the floor. The effort winded her, but she didn't let up her hold on his chest. With a grunted roar, Riddle picked her up again and slammed her left hip into the wall. It did the trick, and Hermione's hold lessened. With her left hip throbbing and out of commission, she dropped to the floor.

But she wasn't done fighting.

She aimed a kick at his groin that he barely avoided, and another kick at his knees which he did not. He buckled and fell to the floor, and Hermione's foot connected solidly with his face. Riddle seemed to do the math quickly in his head, because in the next moment Hermione's brain was rattled as his instep caught the side of her head. She rolled away, and even the darkness the room was spinning.

And then there was pain.

The whole world melted away, and Hermione was twitching and writhing on the floor, screaming as she hadn't screamed since she'd come face to face with Bellatrix Lestrange. It was an unbearable pain; she was struggling to breathe, clawing at the floor beneath her. And then, just as Hermione was beginning to wonder, in the haze of pain, if you could die by Crucio, the curse was lifted. Was he going to physically abuse her even more?

It appeared not. What seemed like an eternity later, a hand roughly grabbed her arm, and she was being squeezed through the tiny rubber tube that was Apparition.

They landed roughly, and when Hermione opened her eyes to look around, her heart sank: She was back in Riddle's sitting room. She managed to roll over onto her back, and at that moment a fist sharply caught her chin, and she blacked out.


End file.
